


Like Music At Night

by fengirl88



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Disguise, First Time, Happy Ending, Impersonation, M/M, Prostitution, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-25 00:32:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/946545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles Xavier, handsome, clever, rich and a telepath, seems to have everything going for him.  He's eighteen years old and just graduated from college, with a brilliant future ahead of him.  But his curiosity about Emma Frost's escort agency, La Reine Blanche, leads to an encounter that turns his life upside down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Eros in his mastery

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rachanlv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachanlv/gifts).



> Written for round two of X-Men Reverse Bang and based on the wonderful art by Raffi (LJ)/ Rachanlv (AO3). 
> 
>  
> 
> Raffi's art masterpost is [here](http://raffi.livejournal.com/279014.html) \- please go and shower her with comments and squee!
> 
>  
> 
> All titles are taken from poems by C.P. Cavafy; the overall title is from his poem Voices.

Charles watches the escort from La Reine Blanche sitting alone and still in the bar of the Parker Hotel. The man’s spent the last half-hour nursing a beer and periodically glancing at the door; the book lying unopened on the table in front of him must be an identifying mark for his client. C.P. Cavafy, _Collected Poems_. The mosaic of a naked dancing man on the cover looks familiar – it’s Bacchus, isn’t it, or a follower of Bacchus? He wonders what the poetry’s like.

The hotel bar’s quiet for half-past seven – maybe most people are at dinner. The man looks at his watch, pulls a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolds it, takes out a pen and draws a couple of parallel lines in the margin near the bottom of the page, then folds it up again. It looks like a computer printout: some kind of information sheet about the client, presumably. Charles wonders what it says.

He wouldn’t have picked this man out of a line-up as an escort if he hadn’t seen him coming out of the agency’s offices. The man doesn’t look much older than Charles – maybe twenty-one, twenty-two at the outside. He dresses like a college boy, chinos and sports jacket and what looks like a club tie. Athletics, maybe: he’s built like a runner, tall and rangy. He looks studious and vague and slightly naïve. 

Of course there must be different types available; not everyone’s going to want an escort like the one Tony Stark brought to the house in Westchester last week, the one who started it all...

***

That man, Janos, had been obvious enough – so obvious that the vicious old gossips Charles and Raven called Gloria Swanson and Baby Jane had hissed in outrage that it was a disgrace, bringing a gigolo like that to dear Sharon’s party. The force of their fantasies about Tony and Janos in bed hit Charles like a gust of foul air, making him choke, before he could raise his shields to deflect it.

He’d caught a flash of Janos’s thoughts too: impatience, hostility, wishing Tony had brought someone else to the party – Charles got a mental image of a handsome young black man and Janos’s spike of satisfaction at the idea of how _that_ would have gone down with Mrs Marko’s guests. Underneath it all, there was a hum of sexual awareness and anticipation that sang louder when Tony ran a casually possessive hand down Janos’s spine and said “Bored, love?”

Charles felt the quick hot flare of images in Janos’s mind at that: Janos on his knees in the gilded bathroom just down the corridor, sucking Tony off (had they really done that there, were they going to?); Tony lying naked on a huge bed with burgundy silk sheets, laughing and thrusting upwards as Janos rode his cock…

“Can we go soon?” Janos asked.

“Sure,” Tony said, grinning. “Hey, Charles!”

No use pretending he hadn’t heard. “Hello, Tony,” Charles said, feeling himself going red in the face.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been eavesdropping again,” Tony said, and tutted. “This is Janos Quested, by the way. Janos, this is Charles Xavier, Sharon’s son. Better watch out for him, he’s a telepath. Cute one, though.”

Janos glared as if he knew Charles had read his mind, though god knows Charles got that look often enough when he didn’t deserve it. 

“Hey, did I miss your birthday again?” Tony said.

His eighteenth birthday and his graduation from Bard; they’d happened on the same day, not that it mattered.

“It’s fine,” Charles said. “Nice to meet you, Janos. Do let me get you another drink.”

“No thanks,” Janos said curtly, and Charles caught an undertone of _spoiled little rich boy acting Miss Chatelaine, someone should fuck him but good, stop him acting like he owns the world…_

“OK, OK,” Tony said, “we’re going. Charles, lovely party, kiss your mother goodbye for me, come up and see me some time –”

“ _Tony_ ,” Janos growled.

“What? He’s my godson, Janos, get your mind out of the gutter. Hell, nobody here’s going to show the kid a good time, are they?”

“Send him to the agency,” Janos said with a sneer. “We cater for all tastes.” 

Charles concentrated very hard on not hearing whatever it was he was thinking.

“Great idea,” Tony said, beaming. “Think of it as a birthday present.” 

He put his hand on the back of Janos’s neck and said “Give him a card, will you, love?” Janos looked thunderous, but did as he was told. 

“Emma runs a good agency,” Tony said. “Tell her I said to find you someone nice.”

“Thanks,” Charles said, flushing. He watched them go, Tony’s arm around Janos’s shoulders and Janos’s hand at Tony’s waist.

Tony could hardly have made it clearer he thought Charles was a virgin, which at eighteen would be ridiculous. Charles didn’t want anyone buying him a girl or a boy for his birthday. But it had been interesting to meet Janos, even though he’d been so rude.

What must it be like, to be him? To go to a party as if you were someone’s boyfriend when everyone knew he was paying to fuck you? Being in a room full of people thinking the sort of things Gloria Swanson and Baby Jane were thinking about you and him in bed together. And then afterwards, when it was just you and the client, who was your lover and not your lover, doing all the things he paid you to do… 

Charles stared down at the card in his hand: a logo of a stylized coronet and the words LA REINE BLANCHE: PLEASURES UNTOLD. The address was in the East 50s, somewhere up near MoMA. Maybe he’d drop by the next time he was in Manhattan, see what sort of place it was.

***

Charles looks at his watch again: it’s gone quarter to eight, and there’s still no sign of the client. It was fun to watch the comings and goings at the agency this afternoon from across the street, to follow the escort from La Reine Blanche to his rendezvous and settle in to see what happened, but he’s getting slightly bored now. He stares at the photographs of the bar’s famous habitués on the wall, and wishes he’d thought to bring a book of his own to pass the time. He’s tempted to ask the man if he can borrow the Cavafy, since _he’s_ not reading it, but he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself.

The man unfolds his piece of paper again, and Charles gives in to the temptation to see what’s on it. It’s the easiest thing in the world to slip undetected into his mind and look through his eyes.

There’s a handwritten line at the top of the page: _Henry, here’s your evening outcall_. Underneath, in typescript, it says:

_Meeting point: Parker Hotel bar, 7.30 p.m._

_Client: Erik Lehnsherr, age 30, business traveler from Cleveland_.

Charles doesn’t read any further, because there’s a photograph and _oh_.

The image looks as if it’s been downloaded from the internet, a screenshot from some article or other rather than a passport photo; it’s not great quality but it’s enough to take Charles’s breath away. _Chiselled features_ is a cliché, but this man really does look as if he’s been sculpted by a master, that strong jaw and the beautiful lines of his forehead and his nose and his mouth. Charles can’t imagine a sculptor who could do justice to that piercing gaze, though; it makes him feel slightly dizzy just looking at it. The man’s wearing a close-fitting t-shirt that shows off his broad shoulders and impossibly small waist, not to mention his arms… Charles’s mouth waters. He’s never been any good at drawing, but if he could have drawn the man of his fantasies he’d look something like this. 

He doesn’t even have to think about it: he just acts.

_You’re late for an appointment_ , Charles tells Henry. _You’re supposed to be at the Ritz-Carlton right now. Don’t waste time calling to say you’re late, just run!_

“Shit!” Henry scrambles to his feet and rushes out of the bar, dropping the sheet of paper in his haste and leaving his book behind him. 

Charles makes sure the bartender’s back is turned, and then scoots into Henry’s vacated seat. He picks up the contact sheet and stares at the photograph some more. Dear god, the man’s hands… Charles swallows hard, imagining those long fingers undressing him, stroking his naked body –

The grandfather clock in the lobby strikes eight and he looks up to see the man from the photograph standing in the doorway.


	2. One Night

Erik looks around the bar and frowns: no sign of Henry from the escort agency, though he should have been here half an hour ago. There’s no-one even sitting alone except for the dark-haired boy in the corner, who looks so young Erik’s surprised the bartender hasn’t thrown him out for being underage. Appealing, if you like that type, though he’s a bit on the short side for Erik’s tastes.

As if he can feel Erik’s gaze on him, the boy looks up and his eyes widen with something that looks like shocked recognition, but can’t be. Erik couldn’t have forgotten a mouth like that – full-lipped and so red he wonders for a moment if the boy’s actually wearing lipstick, finds himself imagining that mouth leaving a smudged lipstick ring around the base of his cock – 

_Pull yourself together, Lehnsherr._ He goes to the bar and orders a vodka martini.

The bartender hands him a menu full of complications: lemon peel, olives, pearl onions, brands of vodka and vermouth…

“Classic,” Erik says wearily.

“Coming right up, sir,” the bartender says.

The drink’s good, and he feels some of the tension of the day start to uncurl. Still no sign of his escort, though. He’s going to demand a refund and an apology at the very least, and he’ll get them, but that’s no good for tonight. He never sleeps well when he’s away on business, and that goes double for New York. That was the whole fucking point of going to the agency. He should have known better than to take Stark’s advice on anything…

 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

Most people wouldn’t even ask; Erik’s spent years practising the glare that keeps them at a distance. Leave it to Tony Stark to ask like _that_.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said, and surprised himself by adding “I never do, away from home.”

“So go out and get laid or something,” Tony said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Easy for him to say; Erik was too ragged after a mostly sleepless night to face going to a bar and finding someone to fuck.

“Here,” Tony said, rolling his eyes as if he knew what Erik was thinking, “try these people.”

LA REINE BLANCHE: PLEASURES UNTOLD, the card said, in the sort of fancy script that always set his teeth on edge. “You have shares in a brothel?” Erik asked, only half-joking.

“Oh please,” Tony said. “It’s not a brothel, it’s an escort agency. Very well run, and no, I don’t have shares in it. Emma’s just a friend.”

“Thanks,” Erik said, pocketing the card with no intention of using it.

He’d cracked after a morning of meetings about the designs for the new project, with Tony at his most impossible, and called the agency at lunchtime. The young woman whose name couldn’t really be Angel had found him Henry (white, twenty-four, tall, thin, brown hair, blue eyes, delicate features), who looked from his picture on the website as if he’d do. Erik had thought that it might be a waste of time, that he’d end up still not sleeping even after several rounds of vigorous sex. But he’d never expected to be _stood up_.

 

“Are you two together?” the bartender asks, and Erik realizes the boy from the corner table is standing by his side, looking up at him expectantly.

Erik resists the impulse to say _Shoo!_

“No,” he says, “we’re not together.”

The boy beams at him. “Oh, but you are Mr Lehnsherr, aren’t you?” He brandishes a copy of Cavafy’s _Collected Poems_.

“You’re not Henry,” Erik says, with a feeling of mounting disbelief. 

“No, I’m Charles,” the boy says. His eyes are as astonishing as his mouth, and Erik’s getting the full force of that intense blue gaze. “Henry couldn’t make it, so I stepped in. I’d love a drink, if you’re buying.” 

He glances at the menu and says, “Ooh, a Texas Millionaire. That sounds like fun.”

Knob Creek bourbon, sweet vermouth and Grand Marnier: it sounds horribly sweet to Erik, but he orders it anyway, faintly surprised that the bartender doesn’t ask Charles for ID.

“Don’t worry, I always get served,” Charles says, with a cheeky grin that makes Erik’s palm itch. 

They carry their drinks back to the corner table; Charles sits so close to him that Erik can smell his skin, feel the warmth of his body through his thin cotton shirt. Erik’s mouth is dry with lust. He takes a long pull at his martini, which doesn’t help as much as he thought it would. 

“Mmm,” Charles says appreciatively, licking his lips. “The Texas Millionaire goes down well.” He looks up at Erik from under his eyelashes, a glance so mischievous and teasing that Erik wants to bend him over the table and fuck him senseless –

Charles chokes on his drink and Erik thumps him between the shoulder blades.

“Sorry,” Charles says, when he’s stopped spluttering. “Went down the wrong way.” The mischievous look is back.

“Finish your drink,” Erik says abruptly. “We’re leaving.”

Charles knocks back the rest of his drink. “Ready when you are,” he says with a smirk. “Coming?”

Erik drains his glass. He pushes his hand between Charles’s thighs and squeezes his cock, hard and sharp. Charles gasps and jerks his hips.

“Right,” Erik says. “You don’t speak again until I give you permission. Understood?”

Charles nods and bites his lower lip. His eyes have gone wide and dark, a mixture of shock and arousal, Erik thinks.

“Good,” Erik says. “Pay the man.”

He hands Charles a $50 bill and watches as he goes through the business of paying the check without speaking, the strain of it showing in the curve of his neck and the set of his shoulders.

The doorman calls a cab, and Erik uses his powers to raise the metal screen between them and the driver.

“Oh!” Charles says, surprised and delighted.

“Did I say you could talk?” Erik snaps.

Charles shakes his head.

“You _are_ a mutant, aren’t you?” Erik says.

Charles nods.

“What kind?” Erik says. “You may answer.”

 _Telepath_ , Charles’s voice says in his head, sounding too smug by half. His eyes are full of mischief again.

“Stay out of my head,” Erik says. “Or I’ll send you back to the agency right now, tell them you fucked this up.”

Charles doesn’t say anything, but he bends over Erik’s hand and presses his lips to the back of it, a gesture of submission so complete and unexpected it makes Erik’s nerves tingle. He turns his head and rests his cheek against Erik’s hand.

“Very well then,” Erik says. He puts his other hand on the back of Charles’s head, twists a lock of Charles’s hair around his fingers and plays with it, pulling and tugging, until the cab draws up outside his hotel. 

Charles waits till Erik tells him to move; he seems a little dazed, or maybe just uncertain now. Erik doesn’t touch him as they walk through the lobby, or in the lift to the twelfth floor, but he can sense the quickening of the boy’s pulse as they near Erik’s room.

Erik locks the door behind them with his powers and stands looking at Charles for a long moment. He’s ridiculously pretty like this, pale freckled skin flushed and lips parted.

“Take your clothes off and lie on the bed,” Erik says.

Charles strips quickly, not making a show of it, and lies on his back.

“I’m going to tie you up,” Erik says, “and you’re not going to come until I say you can. Understood?”

Charles nods. He swallows hard.

“What’s your safeword?” Erik says.

“I don’t need one,” Charles says, with a defiant tilt of his chin.

Erik puts his hand on Charles’s throat and squeezes, not too gently. “Safeword,” he says, as Charles thrashes and fights for breath. He lets go, and Charles coughs.

“Red,” he says. He looks at Erik as if he wants to say something else.

“You have permission to speak now,” Erik says levelly, “unless I tell you otherwise. But I’d be careful how you use it.”

There’s a longish pause before Charles says quietly “Thank you.”

The iron-framed bed is perfect for restraints, and Erik spreads Charles out as he wants him, legs apart and arms above his head. He places himself between Charles’s legs and takes his half-hard cock in his hands, giving it a few gentle tugs and feeling it harden and swell.

“Oh,” Charles says, closing his eyes.

“Eyes open,” Erik says. “Open, and on me. And lie still,” he adds, as Charles wriggles.

He doesn’t expect Charles to be able to keep still, but that’s the point.

Erik starts with light touches, stroking him till Charles shifts and sighs at the teasing caress. Then he tightens his grip and pulls more firmly, enjoying the sensation of Charles’s hot eager cock under his fingers and thumb, the velvety feel of the head as he twists his palm over it. Charles cries out and arches up off the bed at that, limbs flailing against his bonds.

Erik slicks his hands with more lube and strokes Charles’s cock from base to tip, hand over hand, repeated slow pulls that earn him a low sweet moan. When Charles starts to breathe harder and fuck up into his fist, Erik lets go, ignoring his whimper of protest. 

“Not yet,” he says, and rubs his thumb quickly over Charles’s slit. Charles gives a choked cry and jerks his hips upwards, begging for more. 

He’s lovely like this, stomach muscles quivering as Erik sits back and trails his fingers teasingly along his groin, then the backs of his thighs, a ticklish touch that makes Charles gasp and squirm. So beautifully responsive, this boy; Erik’s glad Henry didn’t show up if this is what he gets instead. There’s a tinge of astonishment in his reactions that’s almost too good to be true, flattering though it is – surely Erik can’t be the first client he’s had who likes to tease and take it slow. But Erik’s too busy enjoying how prettily the boy moans and writhes and begs to give it much thought. That sound Charles makes when Erik rubs his perineum and presses his thumbs behind his balls, so _good_ … 

He slides his thumb slowly along the underside of Charles’s cock, pressing and circling that spot just under the head that makes Charles gasp and arch up again, his thigh muscles taut and straining. Erik takes a little more lube for the last push and works him fast and hard, rubbing and pulling at the tip of his cock till Charles cries out and tenses all over, shuddering through pulse after pulse of his orgasm. It’s as much as Erik can do to keep from coming himself, feeling the waves of Charles’s pleasure in his mind as if they were his own; he has to close his eyes just for a moment, bracing himself against the echoing sensation as Charles shivers through the aftershocks.

Charles’s pale freckled skin is blotched crimson, the loveliest example of a sex flush Erik’s ever seen. Erik can’t resist licking the sweat from the hollow of his throat, the twist of his tongue drawing a whimper from Charles. He trails his tongue lower, flicking at each of Charles’s nipples in turn, and Charles squirms and moans. 

“Mm,” Erik says appreciatively, and grazes Charles’s left nipple with his teeth. So sensitive there, gorgeous, you can’t always count on that… 

“Erik, please –” Charles is pulling at his bonds in earnest, and although that’s a pretty sight it might be time to change things up. 

“I’m going to fuck you now, unless you tell me to stop,” Erik says. “Tied or untied – which?”

Charles’s eyes go wide again at that, and he licks his lips in a way that makes Erik want to bite them, hard. “You choose,” he says hoarsely.

“Untied, then,” Erik says, loosening the restraints. “And you can undress me.” 

Charles’s hands are clumsy, fumbling with buttons and fastenings, tugging Erik’s clothes off. The touch of his trembling fingers as he rolls the condom on nearly undoes Erik, and he has to close his eyes and breathe hard again. 

He’d thought of making Charles get himself ready too, making him put on a show, but now he can’t resist the pleasure of working him open, pressing one slicked finger after another into that hot tightness, probing and teasing till Charles is more than half-hard again, moaning and fucking himself on Erik’s fingers.

He feels amazing as Erik pushes into him with Charles’s legs over his shoulders, inch after slow inch till he’s all the way in, so good, _fuck_ , so good –

“Oh,” Charles says shakily. “Oh god. Oh.”

Erik can’t speak; he’s concentrating on mentally reciting differential equations, trying to make this last. He pulls back till just the tip of his cock is lodged in Charles, teases them both with shallow thrusts till Charles is begging for more, _fuck me, fuck me hard, Erik, god, please, harder, make me yours_ –

It’s too much, he can’t hold out any longer. He slams his hips into Charles, going at him hard and fast as Charles arches up to meet him thrust for thrust, his nails digging into Erik’s shoulders, both of them frantic, dripping with sweat, the salt of it in Erik’s eyes and on his lips as he feels Charles clenching around his cock and he shouts and comes over and over, Charles crying out underneath him and pulling him in as deep as he can go, an explosion of heat and light and unbearable sweetness that leaves them both wrecked and gasping, barely able to move.

Erik stays awake for what feels like a long time afterwards, watching Charles sleep. The boy looks even younger like this, vulnerable and innocent, his long dark lashes fluttering. Erik’s tempted to reach out and touch him, to run a finger along that smooth pale freckled skin and watch the hairs on his arm stand on end, make him shift and sigh in his sleep. But he doesn’t touch Charles; instead, he goes on watching till his own eyelids are heavy and he begins to drift off. His last conscious feeling is one of surprise as sleep overtakes him after all.


	3. Someone completely unknown

Charles is still asleep when Erik wakes up. It’s extraordinary how much room the boy manages to take up, sprawled across the bed like that. Erik snorts with amusement, and Charles stirs and opens his eyes.

“Morning,” he says sleepily, and rolls over to hug Erik, burying his face in Erik’s neck and _sniffing_.

“Morning,” Erik says, and runs a hand down Charles’s back from nape to tailbone.

Charles wriggles and makes a small contented sound that’s oddly endearing. Erik didn’t go to an escort agency to get something _endearing_. He pulls away and says “Time to get up.”

“Nooo,” Charles protests. He puts his arms around Erik’s neck and kisses him, a kiss so ardent and open that Erik can’t help kissing him back. Charles wraps his legs around Erik’s and presses against him, hot and half-hard and impossibly young.

 _Not doing this_. Erik disentangles himself again and says “I have a meeting.”

Charles doesn’t say “I have a hard-on,” but he pushes back the covers to show Erik what he’s missing.

“Behave yourself,” Erik says sternly.

Charles licks his lips and looks at him as if to say _Or else what?_. He runs his hand down his chest to his cock and gives it a couple of pulls to bring it to full hardness.

“I ought to tie you up again and leave you here like that,” Erik says. “Let the maid find you when she comes to make up the room.”

Charles’s hand freezes on his cock. He looks startled, but also as if he actually likes the idea, or half-likes it.

“On second thoughts,” Erik says, “maybe I’ll deal with you now after all.” 

He curls his hand around Charles’s and tugs at his cock, jerking him roughly till Charles is gasping and quivering and Erik can feel he’s close to the edge. He stills his hand and looks down at Charles with a grin.

“More?” he says.

“Please,” Charles says, “oh god, please Erik –”

Always nice to hear that, but there isn’t time to draw things out this morning. Erik slides down the bed and takes Charles’s cock in his mouth, as deep as it will go. 

Charles cries out, and there’s that note of astonishment again, as if no-one’s ever done this to him before. Which doesn’t make _sense_ , but there’s no time to think about that, hardly even time to enjoy the weight and feel of Charles’s cock on his tongue, the salt-slick taste of precome as Erik sucks and licks – 

Charles makes a strangled noise and comes, pulling Erik’s hair so hard it nearly makes him choke. “Sorry,” he gasps, “oh god, oh _Erik_. Oh.”

Erik almost says _Next time, how about some warning?_ when he remembers there isn’t going to be a next time. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and says “OK, I’m going to shower.”

He wasn’t expecting Charles to follow him into the bathroom but he’s not about to say no when Charles insists on getting into the shower with him and sucking him off enthusiastically. Erik’s going to be jerking off for a month to the memory of Charles on his knees with his lips wrapped around Erik’s cock, the feeling of Charles’s hands gripping him so tight he’ll have bruises on his hips for days. Charles moans, picking up his thoughts, and the sound tips Erik over the edge, making him come so hard he can barely stand up.

Erik’s not sure he has any brains left for a breakfast meeting with Tony Stark after that, but he has to get up and go just the same. He picks up the tray that room service left outside the door, feeling more than a little dizzy, and grabs a quick cup of coffee.

“Help yourself to whatever,” he says to Charles. “It’s all paid for, and no-one’s going to throw you out till ten. I have to go.”

Charles hugs him tight and kisses him, and Erik has to exercise all his willpower not to kiss him back. He feels Charles go tense in his arms, as if he’s suddenly remembered something.

“What happens about the money?” Charles says.

“All paid for with the agency,” Erik says, surprised. Is Charles really so new to this that he doesn’t know?

“Oh yes, of course,” Charles says. He’s gone beet red.

“OK, I really have to go,” Erik says. “Thanks for a good night.”

It’s true; that was the best night’s sleep he’s had away from home in as long as he can remember, and the sex was terrific. 

“Goodbye,” Charles says. He’s staring at Erik as if there’s something he wants to say but doesn’t know how.

Seriously, Erik does _not_ have time for this sort of thing. 

“Goodbye, Charles,” he says. He picks up his overnight bag and his laptop case and goes out of the room without looking back.

He takes a cab to Stark Tower, though normally he’d walk. But his legs are still shaky from that blowjob in the shower, and it’s pleasant to loll against the upholstery and think about Charles, play back the memories of last night and this morning…

Erik’s been doing this for roughly three and a half minutes when he realizes he badly wants to see Charles again.

Which is a really stupid idea, and he shouldn’t give into it – but this worked, and he’s coming to New York again soon for another meeting with Tony, and oh, what the hell, he might as well allow himself this one indulgence. Next time will be the last, assuming Tony finally signs off on the project, and after that he can forget the whole thing. He takes out his phone and scrolls through the call log till he finds the agency’s number.

“Oh, Mr Lehnsherr,” Angel says, sounding rattled. “Let me put you through to Ms Frost.”

Erik’s about to say that won’t be necessary, he just wants to make a booking for two weeks’ time, but there’s a click and then another voice comes on the line.

“Mr Lehnsherr, I can only apologise,” Emma Frost says. “We pride ourselves on not letting something like this happen. Henry was – unfortunately taken ill.”

Sounds like a lie to Erik, not that he cares.

“Of course we’ll refund your payment in full,” Frost says, “and we’d like to offer you a credit note to use next time you’re in New York.”

“I wasn’t calling to complain,” Erik says. “The opposite, in fact.”

“You – what?” Frost says.

“I’d like to make a repeat booking,” Erik says. “With Charles this time.”

There’s a silence at the other end that seems to go on for a long time.

“Charles,” Frost says.

“Yes,” Erik says, a bit impatiently. “Charles.”

“We don’t _have_ a Charles,” she says.

“You don’t? But that’s impossible–” 

“Mr Lehnsherr,” she says evenly. “I run this agency. I know who we have on our books and who we don’t.”

Erik’s stomach lurches. If Charles wasn’t from the agency, who the hell was he?

He tries to describe him for her, but it’s hopeless. “Brown hair, blue eyes, about five seven, very red lips –” Erik has to stop for a moment, remembering the sight of that mouth on his cock – “very pale skin, lots of freckles, he has two freckles on his nose…”

“I’m sorry, but that doesn’t match anyone in our files,” she says.

It’s ridiculous to feel so disappointed; Charles – or whatever his name was – is hardly the only pretty boy in the world. He’ll find someone else easily enough, or the agency will.

 _Yes, but you want this one_. He tells the voice in his head to shut up.

“Mr Lehnsherr, I don’t know who this man is, or why he was passing himself off as one of our escorts,” Frost says, and there’s a hard edge to her voice now. “But I can assure you La Reine Blanche takes this kind of fraud very seriously indeed. How much did he get from you?”

He doesn’t understand the question at first, and then he remembers Charles asking about the money. 

“Nothing,” he says. “I told him I’d paid by credit card.”

Frost is saying something else, probably apologizing again, but Erik’s not really listening any more. He ends the call as quickly as possible and sits staring into space.

 _How stupid can you be?_ Erik hits his head with the palm of his hand. All the signs were there that this boy wasn’t what he seemed, and yet he’d somehow managed to miss them, or to ignore them. If he ever sees Charles again –

 _If you ever see him again you know you’ll just want to tie him to the bed and fuck him senseless_ , says the treacherous voice in his head. 

Erik groans.

“You OK, pal?” the cab driver says. “Here you are, Stark Tower.”

 

Tony takes one look at him and grins. 

“Good to see you took my advice,” he says. “You certainly look like a man who got his ashes hauled last night.”

“Yeah,” Erik says, because he’s damned if he’s going to tell Tony Stark what really happened.

 _Pleasures Untold_ … He hopes the agency’s as discreet as its motto suggests. The last thing he needs is the world’s biggest blabbermouth knowing that Erik’s been taken for a ride by a conniving piece of jailbait masquerading as a rentboy. He’d never live it down.

_Oh, who are you kidding, Lehnsherr? What’s really the last thing you need is for Tony Stark or anyone else to know that the kid made a fool of you and all you want is to see him again._

Like _that’s_ ever going to happen.

“OK,” Erik says, pulling himself together. “Let’s get to work.”


	4. Body, remember

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No archive warnings apply, but please see the end notes for additional (spoiler) warning.

Charles pours himself a cup of coffee and pokes moodily at the room service tray. Of course it would have been wrong to make Erik late for his meeting, but he’s annoyed with himself for not waking up earlier so they’d have more time to play. He’d have liked to take it slow with Erik, draw out his pleasure the way Erik had done to him… Though maybe that’s not what Erik would have wanted; it’s hard to know.

What would it be like to have a regular client, to get used to what he liked rather than having to guess or make it up, or read his mind when he didn’t want you to? It’s a shame Erik has to go back to Cleveland, though in one way it makes it safer; someone who lived in New York would be bound to find him out sooner or later. No point in thinking about that; he’s had his adventure and now it’s over. Nothing left to do but nibble the strawberries from the breakfast tray and think about last night, last night and this morning…

His body feels tender and tingly and new all over, still aching from the stretch and burn of Erik’s cock last night. His skin is oversensitive, so much so that the touch of the soft towelling bathrobe makes him shiver. He unties the belt and lets the robe drop to the floor, enjoying the sensation of his own nakedness and stretching to get the cricks out of his muscles.

Charles may have led a sheltered life, but he’s not an innocent. You can’t grow up a telepath without learning more than you ever wanted to know about sex: what people do, what they dream of doing, their most secret and shameful fantasies, the sweet and the scary and the downright revolting. He blocked as much of it as he could once he learned how, but he still knows far more of the theory of sex than the practice. None of it – theory or practice – had prepared him for how it would _feel_ to be touched and teased like that till he was half out of his mind with pleasure and need, begging shamelessly and feeling the surge of Erik’s desire at the sound of his pleading, his gasps and whimpers, at the way Charles writhed and arched and bucked, trying to get closer, get _more_ –

Before last night Charles would have assumed that sex with a client would be all about the client’s orgasm, not his own. Like that old joke: _the customer always comes first_. Maybe it would have been that way with a different client. Erik really seemed to get off on making Charles come, on driving him crazy, giving him so much pleasure he could hardly bear it… 

Why would you pay for sex when you could do _that_ to someone? Or when you look the way Erik looks... Jesus. He could come just from thinking about Erik’s mouth and his hands and the line of his jaw, his lean hard body and narrow waist, his shoulder muscles, his chest and his stomach and his thighs and his cock, dear god his cock and the way his mouth felt on _Charles’s_ cock, fuck, _fuck_ , why isn’t Erik here right now? 

Charles moans and sprawls face down on the bed, inhaling Erik’s scent mixed with his own on the pillows and the tangled sheets. He lets himself imagine Erik naked underneath him, hard and panting and pushing up against him, their cocks rubbing together, Erik’s hands gripping Charles’s shoulders, no, his hips, _oh_ … He rocks and thrashes, pressing and twisting his hips against the mattress and muffling his groans in the pillow. He imagines Erik coming back because he’s forgotten something, Erik finding him like this, exposed and shameless, so desperate to come he doesn’t even care that he’s blowing his cover, what kind of rentboy gets off on fantasizing about his client and remembering what they did together, _just a job it’s just a job don’t get attached don’t fall in love_ –

Charles comes harder than he’s ever come by himself before, shuddering and gasping, wracked by spasms that shake his whole body. The sheets are comprehensively ruined – he hopes Erik won’t get charged extra for that – and he’s bathed in sweat again. He’d go for another shower, but showering doesn’t seem like much fun without Erik. Maybe a bath…

The bath is deliciously relaxing. Almost too much so; he can feel himself starting to get drowsy as the ache in his muscles slowly ebbs away. Erik put that ache there, he thinks, and he can’t help smiling and smiling, remembering how. He runs more hot water, letting the warmth soothe and caress him, and strokes himself, idly at first and then with more intent as the memories and images take hold, his hand moving fast and hard on his cock.

He can hardly believe he’s so desperate to come again, so soon after the last time, third time this morning, he shouldn’t be doing this in the hotel bathroom, not when the maid could come in at any minute, he has no idea what time it is, Erik said they wouldn’t disturb him before ten, Erik should have kissed him back when Charles kissed him goodbye, Erik should have stayed so they could bathe together, so Erik could soap him all over and tease him again, stroke his cock so slowly, so slowly, till Charles begged for more, begged to come, begged to be fucked and Erik, _Erik_ , doing it, yes, fucking him hard and deep, rocking into him as Charles rocked back, waves overflowing the bath, soaking the floor, Erik thrusting into him again and again, both of them shouting in orgasm –

Charles arches his back, his cock pulsing helplessly over his fist – and oh god, that’s it, there it is, the unmistakable sound of a door opening and a woman’s voice calling “Housekeeping!”

The woman obviously doesn’t believe his story about falling asleep in the bath, and the look she gives him makes him blush every time he remembers it over the next twenty-four hours, which is pretty often. It doesn’t help that the next twenty-four hours are mostly taken up with thinking far too much about Erik Lehnsherr and how much Charles wants to see him again.

***

This was a stupid idea, Charles thinks, looking around the bar of the Parker Hotel. It’s not as if Erik’s going to walk in; he must have gone back to Cleveland over a week ago now. 

The bar’s not much busier than the last time he was here, though there are a few couples, including one or two obvious mutant-human pairings. He wonders if there’s anyone here from the agency, whether it’s a place they often use for pickups.

He tries again to concentrate on his book, though he’s made at least six unsuccessful attempts to read this page now…

“Waiting for someone?”

Charles looks up to see who’s talking to him. The man could be any age from forty-something to a well-preserved sixty. His clothes say _money, and lots of it_ a bit too loudly, but he’s good-looking and obviously knows it. He’s gazing at Charles as if he’d like to eat him up.

“No,” Charles says cheekily, “not any more.”

The man’s smile makes him think of a hunter holding up a trophy. “What are you drinking?”

“Right now, ginger ale,” Charles says.

“But you’re ready for something stronger,” the man says.

“Absolutely,” Charles says, and licks his lips.

“Room service is good here,” the man says. “I have a very comfortable suite I’d like to show you.”

This is all going faster than Charles expected, but what the hell?

“Sure,” he says. “We can take our drinks up with us.”

“I never carry anything someone else could carry for me,” the man says. He clicks his fingers. “Boy!”

“Sir?” the bartender says, giving off a mixture of hatred and unease that makes Charles feel slightly dizzy.

“A bottle of Veuve Clicquot and two glasses,” the man says. “Suite 944.”

“Yes, sir.” 

Charles isn’t sure if he should look impressed; men who come here to pick up someone like him probably think nothing of spending over $100 on a bottle of wine. On the other hand, the man’s clearly showing off a bit, and some sort of reaction seems called for.

“Mmm, champagne,” he says. “What are we celebrating?”

“The fuck of your life, of course,” the man says, leaving it unclear whether Charles is supposed to take it as a joke.

“Sounds irresistible,” Charles says, and licks his lips again. “Are you going to ruin me for anyone else?”

The man smiles his hunter’s smile again. “It’s like you read my mind.”

“I’m Charles,” he says, because doing this without names feels too weird.

“Sebastian,” the man says. “You must be new to this.”

Busted, Charles thinks ruefully; it’s hardly surprising. “Must I?” 

“Oh, I think so,” Sebastian says. He’s almost purring. “You don’t look very experienced.”

“Maybe my clients just like me this way,” Charles says, batting his eyelashes.

“Maybe they do,” Sebastian says coldly. “I’m not interested in roleplay.”

Oops. Charles isn’t sure what to say to that, but he settles for asking “How new do you think I am?”

“You’re not a virgin,” Sebastian says, “but you’re still surprised when someone approaches you, and you’re obviously using your real name. I’d say it’s your first month in the job.”

“You’re right,” Charles says. It’s probably obvious, after all, so what’s the point in bluffing?

“Let’s go and have that champagne,” Sebastian says, looking very pleased with himself.

It’s odd that Charles can’t pick up more of his thoughts; there’s a hum of satisfaction, gloating even, but nothing more specific than that, almost as if the man is blocking him. He can feel that there’s some sort of mutation there, but he can’t tell what it is.

“Telephone call for you, Mr Shaw,” the desk clerk calls as they cross the lobby to the elevators.

“Tell them to call back later,” Sebastian says. “I’m busy.”

“Should we discuss terms?” Charles asks, as the elevator doors close on them. He keeps his tone light; a real rentboy would know without asking, but the best he can do is pretend it’s a joke.

“Two thousand for the night,” Shaw says. 

It’s more than Charles was expecting, but he doesn’t know if he should act surprised.

“For that, you get the works,” he says, hoping it doesn’t sound too obviously as if he’s bluffing.

“Oh no,” Shaw says, swiping his keycard in the door. “For that, _you_ get the works.”

Charles gets a sudden flash of what’s in his mind: a case lying open on the table by the window, shining rows of sharp metal implements neatly arranged. The smell of blood fills his nostrils and he feels icy-cold, as if he’s about to faint or throw up. Shaw’s gleeful anticipation hits him in the face like a black mist, clinging to him, choking him –

Summoning all his powers, Charles strikes out with his mind at Shaw, dropping him to the floor, and runs for the fire exit as if all the devils in hell are after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains briefly implied non-graphic reference to torture.


	5. A simple boy

Erik’s not used to finding himself with an afternoon to kill, but Tony Stark and the in-house team are busy having a fight about minute computer programming details that leave him with nothing to do until dinner. He could do with a change of scene: yes, Stark Tower is way more comfortable than any hotel he could afford and it was nice of Tony to say he could stay, but sleeping at the client’s house makes him feel mildly claustrophobic. Time to get out of here, before Tony and his minions try to drag him into the meeting to take sides…

It’s a nice day, not too humid yet, and he strolls in Central Park for a while, then wanders down Fifth Avenue, heading for the Flatiron Building, a piece of New York craziness he’s always liked. He stops in front of the New York Public Library, which has an exhibition about public architecture he’s half-tempted to go into, but he doesn’t feel like being indoors. Maybe he’ll just say hello to the lions and go and sit in Bryant Park for a while.

He can feel the hum of the book elevators inside the building, the stacks and the carrels and the big brass lamps in the reading rooms. One of Moira’s exes took him on a tour once, and he still remembers it.

The crowds of readers and tourists flowing in and out of the library part for a moment, and Erik gasps.

It can’t be him. It _is_ him.

“Charles!”

If he’d had any doubts that that was really the boy’s name, they vanish when Charles jumps at the sound. He rushes down the steps towards Erik, almost tripping over himself in his eagerness, looking so happy to see him that Erik has to work hard not to look too pleased himself. He has a bone to pick with Charles; a whole skeleton, in fact.

It must show in his face, how he’s feeling, because Charles stops short of touching him, as if he’s not sure he’s allowed to. He’s standing on the step above Erik’s, and the height of it puts their faces on a level. It would be the easiest thing in the world to lean forward and kiss him – and why Erik’s even thinking of that when he ought to be yelling at Charles, he really doesn’t know.

“What are you doing here?” Erik says, because it’s hardly the most likely place to run into an escort. If Charles even _is_ one. He looks more like a prep school kid sneaking out of class, guilty flush and all.

“Visiting a – someone I know,” Charles says, after just too long a pause.

Erik’s never thought of the NYPL as a hotbed of sexual activity, but his treacherous imagination flashes up images of Charles sucking off some bored senior librarian or a wealthy exchange student, or –

“Oh!” Charles says, flushing even more. “No, really, it wasn’t anything like that –”

“You lied to me,” Erik says flatly. “You’re not with La Reine Blanche, I checked. Did you think I was so stupid I wouldn’t find out?”

Charles looks at his shoes as if they might have the answer. “No,” he says. “I didn’t think you were stupid at all. I just didn’t think.”

“Why did you pretend to be with the agency?” Erik manages not to yell, but it’s an effort.

“I – look, will you let me buy you coffee?” Charles says. “To apologise?”

Erik fully intends to say no, but he clearly has the willpower of a jellyfish. “OK,” he says. “But this had better be good.”

“The explanation, or the coffee?” Charles asks, so cheekily that Erik’s seriously tempted to put him across his knee and spank him right there on the library steps.

 _Really, Erik, on the library steps?_ Charles’s voice in his head sounds amused and more than half-interested.

 _Fucking telepaths_ , Erik thinks viciously. “I told you before, stay out of my head!”

“Sorry,” Charles says. “I – sometimes I can’t help hearing things, when someone’s thinking them very loudly.”

Maybe it’s true, at that; there are times when Erik can’t block out his awareness of metal.

“There’s a stall in the park,” he says. No point taking revenge on the kid by making him shell out a small fortune for an overpriced cup of coffee. What he wants is an explanation, after all.

Charles pays for the cinnamon spice lattes with a $50 bill – _what did he do to get that?_ Erik wonders – and they sit down by the old men playing chess, too absorbed in the game to pay them any attention. It’s as safe a place as any for this conversation.

The coffee’s better than Erik expected, but it leaves Charles with a distracting blob of creamy foam on his upper lip.

“Lick your lips,” Erik says. Which is stupid – he could just have said “Wipe your mouth”, or “You’ve got some foam.”

Charles licks his lips deliberately, staring right at Erik as he does so. His eyes are dark, as if doing what Erik tells him to is turning him on. Erik has a brief but violent mental image of pushing him to his knees and making Charles suck him off in front of the chess-players and the crazy people, the pickpockets and hustlers…

Erik clears his throat. “I believe you owe me an explanation,” he says. He crosses his legs, though he’s not sure why he’s even trying to hide the effect Charles has on him – the boy must know.

“The paper,” Charles says, which makes no sense. “Henry dropped the paper from the agency about you when he left the bar, and I picked it up. I thought I could pretend to be your escort for the night. I’m sorry. It was a stupid thing to do.”

Erik still doesn’t understand, and then he thinks he does: “You’re trying to make it on your own?”

It doesn’t bear thinking about. Erik’s seen enough news stories and charity appeals about what it’s like for a boy living on the streets: turning tricks for cash or drugs, getting beaten up by some pimp who doesn’t want an amateur muscling in on his business, getting hurt or even killed by a john who knows he’s vulnerable and alone –

Charles shudders, as if he’s hearing Erik’s thoughts again. That probably _was_ pretty loud. The kid doesn’t look as if he’s scarred or starving, but he shouldn’t be out there alone. Anything could happen.

“Erik, I – ” Charles begins, but he doesn’t get to finish that sentence.

“Get away from that boy!” 

Erik looks up, startled, to see a wild-eyed, wild-haired man in a ripped and stained black suit, his priest’s collar hanging askew.

“Thou shalt not lie with man as with woman,” the man shouts. “It is an abomination.”

Great, just what this conversation needed: a Bible-basher who’s also a queerbasher.

“Would you go away, please,” Charles says, apparently unfazed.

The man’s smell as he leans in close is almost overpowering. “Whore.”

“Mind your own fucking business!” Erik snaps.

“The souls of the damned are my business,” the man says. His eyes are bloodshot and there’s a Band-Aid on his chin where he’s cut himself shaving – several days ago, judging by his stubble.

“Not these souls,” Charles says. “I don’t need saving, thanks.”

“You’re going to burn in hell,” the man hisses. “And you – ” he rounds on Erik – “A man cannot touch pitch and not be defiled. You ought to be stoned to death, the pair of you.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Charles says. “Erik, I think maybe we should continue this conversation somewhere else.”

“Sure,” Erik says. “Your place or mine?”

“Yours,” Charles says, not even pausing for breath.

“OK,” Erik says. “We’ll take a cab.”

The man follows them to the kerb, shouting abuse and waving his arms about. Several cabs go straight past them, though there’s no-one in the back. They’ll never get a ride with this man sticking to them like glue.

“Oh god,” Charles says. “I didn’t want to have to do this.”

He makes an odd sort of gesture, fingering his temple, and the man staggers back into the park and collapses into a deckchair that tips over and dumps him on the grass.

“Taxi!” Erik yells, as the lights change and another cab approaches. It slows to a halt and he wrenches the door open.

“Get in,” he says to Charles, who’s looking back at the man sitting dazed on the grass.

Charles stumbles into the cab and slumps back against the tacky upholstery.

“Columbus Circle,” Erik says to the driver. “Charles, are you OK?”

“Headache,” Charles says, looking very pale. “I – ow – I think I pushed him too hard.”

He shuts his eyes and leans against Erik’s shoulder as the cab makes its way to Stark Tower. 

 

One good thing about staying with Tony Stark, there’s no shortage of fancy drugs if you need them. The bathroom cabinet’s full of bottles and tubes and packets of pills, most of which Erik gives a wide berth. But there’s a box of extra-strength painkillers that looks like it should be safe. He makes Charles swallow two with a glass of water.

“Does that happen often? The headache?”

“Not often,” Charles says, wincing. “But I don’t usually do that sort of thing.” He’s still very pale – if anything he seems worse now than he was in the cab.

Erik strokes his thumbs from the middle of Charles’s forehead to his temples. Charles groans softly.

“Sorry,” Erik says. “Did that hurt?”

“No,” Charles says, “it’s helping. Thanks.”

Erik goes on stroking, trying to push away the pain with his thumbs, then his fingertips. He moves round to stand behind Charles and slides the flat of his hand up over Charles’s forehead, one hand and then the other, over and over.

Charles lets out a long sigh and leans back against him, warm and heavy. Erik can’t resist dropping a kiss on the top of his head.

Charles snorts with amusement. “Kissing it better?” 

“If you like,” Erik says, sliding his hands down to the back of Charles’s neck. He presses his thumbs just below the hairline and rubs in firm circles.

“Oh,” Charles says. “Oh, that’s good.”

Erik rubs his neck for a while and then massages his shoulders, feeling the knots begin to give way as he presses and squeezes. He tries to focus on what his hands are doing, though it’s hard not to get distracted by Charles’s groans of pleasure and relief.

“You have – ahh – wonderful hands,” Charles says. “ _Oh_.”

Erik shouldn’t be getting turned on, but it’s probably unavoidable, and a glance down at Charles’s jeans tells him he’s not the only one.

“Want to take a shower?” Erik asks, running his thumbs lightly up the sides of Charles’s neck.

“Only if you get in with me,” Charles says, pressing back against him with obvious intent.

Erik doesn’t need any persuading; he strips as if it’s a race, heart pounding as he watches Charles shed his clothes.

So good, being naked with Charles under the cascade of warm water, kissing and kissing as if they’d never stop. Erik runs his hands all over Charles’s body, stroking, soaping, teasing, caressing as Charles bucks up into his hand. He sinks to his knees and takes Charles’s cock in his mouth, licking and sucking till Charles cries out and jerks his hips, his hands tangling in Erik’s hair as he comes. Erik washes him clean, fondling his cock and balls and reaching around to soap his buttocks, pulling the cheeks apart to rub and tease at his anus. He spends a long time attending to Charles there, making him writhe and moan in anticipation.

“Bed,” Erik says hoarsely, turning off the water and grabbing a huge fluffy towel to wrap around them both. 

He’s painfully hard, and the way Charles presses back against his cock is not helping at all. He pushes Charles into the bedroom and face down on the bed with his hands above his head. Erik straddles him and leans in to bite at the nape of his neck.

Charles whimpers and squirms as Erik kisses all the way down his back, tracing his tongue over Charles’s freckles, sucking and licking and biting.

“Lie still,” Erik tells him, pushing his thighs apart and stroking his thumbs along the gorgeous curve of Charles’s buttocks. 

“I – I can’t –”

Erik curves the metal bars of the headboard around Charles’s wrists, tightening them just enough so he can’t wriggle free. Charles moans softly but doesn’t protest.

“Good,” Erik says, moving back down the bed so he’s lying between Charles’s legs.

He leans in and licks gently across Charles’s hole, stroking him with the flat of his tongue over and over again. He presses the tip of his tongue against that tight hot place that yields just a little as he pushes. He licks across again, and then swirls his tongue in circles till Charles is almost sobbing, his whole body trembling as Erik holds him open and begins to fuck him with short blunt stabs of his tongue.

“Oh god,” Charles moans into the pillow, “Erik, please, I can’t – fuck, _fuck_ , please –”

Erik pulls back, breathing hard, and reaches for the condoms and lube. He rolls the condom on, not trusting himself to keep from coming if he gets Charles to do it for him, and slicks himself up. He probes and strokes Charles, pushing one slippery finger in, then a second, a third, crooking them and feeling for that little bump that makes Charles cry out and quiver when he rubs against it. Erik slides his fingers out again and pushes the head of his cock against Charles’s hole, pressing till just the tip is inside. 

“More,” Charles whines in frustration. He pushes back against him, and Erik gives him a little more, and more again, making Charles work for every inch, till he’s balls-deep inside him, so hot and tight it takes his breath away.

“Yes,” Charles gasps. “Move, oh god _move_ , Erik, damn you!”

Erik moves. He fucks Charles with slow, deep thrusts, till they’re both moaning and he can’t bear it any longer, he has to go faster, slamming his hips hard as Charles clenches and comes with a long drawn-out cry and he comes too, feeling the surge of Charles’s orgasm through his own.

His mouth is against the back of Charles’s neck, slick with sweat, and he bites him again, the impulse to mark and claim him so strong that he can’t resist. Charles whimpers and clenches his fists, shuddering underneath him. Groggily, Erik makes the metal restraints uncurl from around Charles’s wrists. He rolls off Charles and onto his back, panting, and wipes the sweat from his eyes with his hand. 

Charles rolls over, sprawling heavily across Erik’s chest and flinging one leg over Erik’s. He pushes his face into the crook of Erik’s neck and inhales deeply. 

“Oof,” Erik says, still groggy. “Bathroom first.”

Charles grumbles a bit about that, but he lets go, and Erik stumbles into the bathroom to bin the condom and brush his teeth. Obviously Charles isn’t getting out of bed any time soon, so Erik brings a damp washcloth and wipes them both clean. Charles yelps and squirms at the touch of the wet cloth, protesting that it’s cold. 

“It just feels that way because you’re hot,” Erik says, laughing.

“Come back to _bed_ ,” Charles insists. He puts his arms around Erik’s neck and pulls him down into an embrace.

“OK,” Erik says, surrendering. He’s still woozy with post-sex euphoria and Charles is warm and heavy in his arms and smells ridiculously good. Erik strokes his hair and gently scratches Charles’s scalp, his fingers pressing and circling in an echo of his earlier massage. He knows there was something they needed to talk about, but right now he’s too blissed-out and sleepy to remember what it was.

 

Erik’s dreaming of robots, androids, flying suits of armour… He wakes up with a start.

“Mr Lehnsherr, Mr Stark would like you to join him for dinner when you’re ready,” the AI voice says.

“Shit!” Charles scrambles out of bed and starts grabbing his clothes from the floor. “Shit, shit, shit!”

“Hey,” Erik says blearily. “You don’t have to go.” He catches Charles round the waist and pulls him down for a kiss.

Charles kisses him back, hard, but then pulls away. “I have to go. Erik, please, I’ve _got_ to –”

“OK,” Erik says, though he doesn’t really see why.

“Oh god,” Charles says, frantically pulling on his clothes. He stumbles into the bathroom, and Erik hears him crashing about and swearing.

“Call me,” Erik says, when Charles emerges from the bathroom looking marginally less dishevelled but still bolt-eyed with panic. Why can you never find a fucking business card when you need one, ah, there it is – 

Charles looks at the card as if it’s going to bite him. Then he shoves it in his jeans pocket, grabs Erik and kisses him so hard he draws blood, and runs from the room.

Erik showers and dresses, wondering why Charles was in such a state. Oh well. No point thinking about that now. He’d better go and find Tony, and hope his brains aren’t so fucked out that he can’t talk about work over dinner.

Tony’s talking on the phone and pacing around the big room on the top floor. The view from those picture windows still takes Erik’s breath away, though he supposes you’d get used to it if you lived here.

“Hey,” Tony says, gesturing at the console by the TV screen. “Get yourself a drink, I’ll be a moment. Got Coulson on the line.”

It takes Erik a while to work out that the drinks are in the cabinet with the photograph frames on top. Digital frames, as you’d expect: there’s one cycling through pictures of Tony’s assistant Pepper Potts looking variously stern and less stern, another with different versions of the Iron Man suit, and a third with pictures of children, ranging in age from babies to schoolkids to – 

_Charles_.

Erik rubs his eyes, and the image is gone, but he knows he saw it. He stares at the picture frame until the image comes round again: it’s a younger Charles, but still unmistakable.

“Yeah, I know,” Tony says, coming back into the room, “it’s not what you’d expect. But you’d better believe I’m one hell of a godfather. They’re nice kids, mostly.”

Erik is still speechless, and Tony quirks an eyebrow.

“Hey,” he says, “you still don’t have a glass. What are you drinking?”

“I – a martini,” Erik says, half-dazed.

“I make the best martinis in New York,” Tony says, taking the cocktail shaker out of Erik’s hand. “Which means the best in the world, right?”

“Right,” Erik says numbly. 

Clearly the world has gone mad, and the only course of action is to get incapably drunk as fast as possible. From the strength of the drink Tony’s mixing him, that shouldn’t take long at all.


	6. Another city

“Don’t rat on me now, JARVIS,” Charles mutters, as he watches the elevator climb to the guest floor. 

There’s no answer; all he can do is hope and pray JARVIS hasn’t mentioned his presence to Tony. Charles hasn’t been here for a while, but he used to be in and out of the place all the time in his early teens. Looking on the bright side, at least this should mean JARVIS won’t mistake him for an intruder…

When Erik had said _Your place or mine?_ , of course he’d assumed that would mean a hotel again. He’d got a nasty shock when the cab drew up and he realized this was where Erik was staying, though at least he couldn’t feel Tony’s mind when he reached out for it – it seemed as if the coast was clear. But he’d let himself fall asleep, stupid, _stupid_ , and missed the warning signs of Tony’s return until it was too late.

It’s not just that Tony’s the biggest gossip on the planet (Radio Stark, Raven calls him). Charles _really_ doesn’t need his mother finding out what he’s been up to. But he also doesn’t trust Tony not to tell Erik about him, maybe even about the party and how he was the one who’d put Charles onto La Reine Blanche – no doubt he’d think it was hilarious that he’d unwittingly brought Charles and Erik together.

The elevator doors slide open, and Charles stumbles inside with a gasp of relief. Now, if he can just make it out of the building…

 

Raven’s lying on her bed looking bored and scrolling through the Mutant and Proud tag on Tumblr.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she says.

“Very nearly,” Charles says, perching on the edge of the bed.

She looks at him more sharply. “What?”

It’s not the sort of thing he ever thought he’d tell her, but he has to talk to someone or he’ll go crazy.

Two minutes into his story, she says “Hang on,” and switches off her iPad. 

“Tell me from the beginning,” she says. “Tell me _properly_.”

So Charles does.

 

“I don’t understand why you want to go to _Cleveland_ ,” his mother says for the third time over breakfast, glaring at the half-grapefruit untouched in front of her. “You have your place at Harvard for the fall, everything’s arranged –”

“I only want to have a look,” Charles says. “Case Western’s really good for some things.”

“Typical Charles,” Raven sneers, “he just _has_ to make everything more complicated.” 

“Shut up!” Charles tells her, right on cue. He can’t quite believe his mother’s going to fall for this, but it seems to be working so far.

“I bet it’s just an excuse,” Raven says, helping herself to more pancakes. “He’s really going to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame.”

Charles snorts with amusement in spite of himself; she hadn’t told him she was going to say that.

“Raven, _please_ ,” his mother says irritably. “You know you need to watch your weight.”

“Oh, the hell with this,” Raven says, flouncing out of her chair. “I have a date with Azazel.”

“You do _not_!”

Bingo, Charles thinks. If there’s one thing guaranteed to distract his mother’s attention even more than the running battle over Raven’s eating habits, it’s the prospect of Reds under the bed – or rather, _in_ it.

“I need to book my flight if I’m going tomorrow,” he says.

“Yes, fine, just go away and stop bothering me!” his mother says. “Raven, we have been over and _over_ this, you are not seeing that, that _Communist_ while you’re living under this roof.”

 _Thanks, Raven_ , Charles says to her silently. _I owe you one_.

She rolls her eyes, as if to say _You’d better believe it_ , and he makes his getaway, leaving the row over Azazel in full swing behind him.

Charles books his ticket and a hotel room and lies low for the rest of the day; he’s not sure how much grace the row has bought him. Of course his mother can’t actually forbid him – he’s legally an adult now, it’s not as if she can tell him he’s grounded – but she can make it pretty unpleasant when he doesn’t do what she wants.

 _Tomorrow_ , he thinks. _Tomorrow I’ll see him again_. 

It’s only been three days, but it feels like forever. No more pretending: he’s going to tell Erik the whole truth this time, tell him he’s fallen for him, that he’s willing to do whatever it takes to be with him. Grad school can wait a year; he’ll write to Harvard and ask to defer his place. 

He’s too excited to sleep, going over and over it in his mind, how they’ll meet, how Erik will look when he sees him, what he’ll say to Erik, what Erik will say to him, what it’ll be like to go to bed together with no more secrets, just the two of them naked and glorious between the sheets. He touches himself and pretends it’s Erik’s hand on his cock, and he comes hard and fast, but it’s not enough, he wants more, needs it again, and again before he falls into an uneasy doze, full of half-remembered dreams. His alarm wakes him and he finds he’s hard again, aching for Erik’s hands on him, strong and teasing and sure, pushing him right to the edge and then over it.

He sleeps through most of the short flight, and stumbles bleary-eyed through an airport full of surreal giant model aeroplanes hung from the ceiling, past the stalls of pretzels and cinnamon buns whose scent makes his stomach rumble, past the huge billboards advertising the Cleveland Clinic, and out to the taxi rank. The driver looks at him suspiciously, as if he thinks Charles isn’t old enough to have a credit card, but he doesn’t argue. Charles drowses again, half-listening to the pop tunes and adverts on the radio, and wakes to find they’re crossing the river, past cranes and pulleys like metal ghosts of the city’s industrial past. 

The hotel’s in a tower that seems to be part of an insanely fancy shopping mall with dubious painted ceilings depicting colonialist triumphs. Charles boggles and pinches himself, but apparently he is awake, and they’re expecting him. He gets that suspicious look from the hotel clerk again, though. Maybe he should grow a beard.

His room is bigger than expected, and blessedly cold after the sticky cab-ride. He showers and changes, figuring that Erik won’t be ready to leave work yet and might not want to be interrupted. He didn’t think about buying new clothes for the trip, which is a pity, but he knows he looks good in blue, and the soft denim shirt is one of his favourites. If everything goes according to plan, Erik won’t be able to keep his hands off him.

The auburn-haired woman at Erik’s office gives him an unexpectedly sharp look, and asks if he has an appointment. Charles thinks about making her believe he has, but this is the beginning of him trying to be honest. So he settles for saying Erik asked him to call, which is true, and showing the woman Erik’s business card.

“Huh,” she says, still sceptical. “OK, well, you just missed him.”

Charles feels cold in the pit of his stomach. Maybe Erik’s off in another city, visiting a different client, maybe he’ll meet somebody else he likes better than Charles…

“Don’t look so tragic,” the woman says briskly. “He hasn’t gone far. He’s having a drink with the boys from Sound and Light – it’s Alex’s birthday.”

“Where did they go?” Charles asks, trying not to sound as desperate as he feels.

“They’ll be in the Great Lakes Brewery,” the woman says, sounding amused, as if she’s guessed what Charles is really here for. “Probably in the Beer Cellar. It’s on Market Avenue – turn right out of here and then take the second left.”

“Thank you, Ms –”

“MacTaggert,” the woman says. “If he doesn’t want to see you, don’t blame me. And don’t tell him I sent you.”

“I won’t,” Charles says hastily. “Thanks.”

He hadn’t thought about what he’d do if Erik was _with_ people – the idea of having an audience for that conversation hadn’t occurred to him. But maybe there’ll be a quiet corner where they can talk properly, or they can go back to Erik’s place… 

Erik’s sitting at a long table next to the store for what Charles supposes must be the fermentation tanks. He’s with a bunch of people who mostly don’t look much older than Charles, all drinking beer from tall glasses. The table’s covered with food that everyone seems to be sharing: plates of sausages, pretzels and relishes, cold meats and cheeses. Charles’s stomach rumbles; it’s a long time since breakfast and he forgot to have lunch.

He hasn’t seen Erik in his casual office clothes before – black jeans and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing his wrists and forearms… Charles’s mouth is dry and his skin feels hot and tight.

“Hello, Erik,” he says, and realizes he has no idea what to say next.

Erik looks up, and the shock on his face is not what Charles was hoping to see there at all. There’s an ominous hum of metal as the bars to the tank store vibrate, and a deep reverberation from the huge metal cylinders.

“Charles,” Erik says flatly. “Why are you here?”

“I – I wanted to see you,” Charles says, squirming inwardly at how weak it sounds. “I wanted to explain properly. I didn’t – I haven’t told you the whole truth.”

He takes a deep breath, but Erik cuts in before he can speak.

“I know exactly who and what you are,” Erik says. “And I never want to see you again.”

This can’t be happening. Charles feels icy-cold all over, and there’s a ringing in his ears as if he’s about to faint. 

“Erik, please –” 

“Did you not hear me?” Erik snaps, as the angry hum of metal grows louder. “I said I never want to see you again. Now fuck off.”

Charles is shaking, but he’s not giving up that easily. He takes a step closer to Erik. 

“Will you at least let me –”

“What part of fuck off did you not understand?” Erik says, with such stinging contempt that Charles wilts under it, sagging like a puppet whose strings have been cut.

“OK,” he says numbly. “Goodbye, Erik.”

Erik doesn’t answer, doesn’t even look at him as he stumbles away from the table and up the cellar stairs.


	7. Things Ended

Erik’s scalp is crawling with rage and the knot in his gut seems to be trying to climb up into his throat. He can feel every scrap of metal in the place vibrating. He forces himself to focus on his breathing, trying to contain his anger before he wrecks the place or hurts some innocent bystander. 

Alex and Sean look shaken, but at least they know better than to ask who Charles was or why he and Erik were fighting, why Charles was looking like that – 

The thought of Charles’s face, so white and stricken, the freckles standing out against his pale skin, makes Erik’s chest hurt. He can’t stay and make nice with the interns; he needs to get the fuck out of here, _now_.

He pulls a couple of bills out of his wallet and says “Here, Alex, buy everyone another round. I’m going back to the office.”

Moira had better have a damn good explanation for this. Not that it matters any more.

 

“He said you asked him to call you,” Moira says, a bit defensively. “He had your card.”

Erik groans. “I did,” he says, “but that was before I knew who he was.”

She gives him that look he knows so well by now, the one that says _Don’t give me any of your bullshit_.

“What do you actually know about him anyway? Other than that Stark’s his godfather?”

“I know he _lied_ to me,” Erik explodes. “ _Twice_.”

It’s worse than that, though he doesn’t want to admit it even to himself.

“I was worried about him being on the streets, you know? Or getting beaten up by some pimp, or getting sick –”

“Oh god,” she says, and the pitying expression on her face is one he never wants to see from anyone. “You fell in love with him.”

“Like hell,” Erik snarls. The worst of it is, she’s right. He fell in love with a spoilt brat who was just amusing himself, playing at being a rentboy, at being poor. Probably laughing up his sleeve at Erik the whole time.

“The little shit,” Moira says. “If I’d known –”

But really, what could she or anyone have done by then? It was too late, and now it’s over. He has to pick himself up, put himself back together again, and forget a rentboy called Charles who never really existed.

“You weren’t to know,” he says. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

“I worry about you more when you’re like this,” she says, and it’s only half a joke. She puts her hand on his arm.

“I’m OK,” he says, though he pulls away from her touch. “Well, not right now, but I will be. Tell me what’s happening with tomorrow’s meeting.”

She looks as if she’d like to push it, but she knows him better than that after five years of working together.

“OK,” she says, opening a file on her computer. “Here’s the list of who’s coming from the Art Museum.”

 

His mother calls him just as he’s sitting down to Chinese takeout at the kitchen table. 

“Edie, hi, I’m just about to eat,” he says. Damn. He should have called her at the weekend, then this wouldn’t have happened.

“I can call back later,” she says.

Better get it over with, though his stomach’s rumbling; he’d barely had a couple of mouthfuls at Great Lakes before Charles showed up.

“No, it’s OK,” he says. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” she says. “How are _you_?”

She always knows. Some people would call it maternal instinct, though he thinks being a psychoanalyst gives her an unfair advantage.

“I’m OK,” he lies.

“Mmhm,” she says, clearly not buying it for a second. “Chinese takeout?”

“Good guess,” he says. Sometimes he thinks she must have radar, or else that she’s got the house bugged. “Want to tell me what I ordered?” 

She doesn’t rise to that. “How was your trip to New York?”

“I had a good meeting with Tony Stark,” he says, because it’s true, and the easiest thing to say. “I think we’re getting there.”

“Good,” she says, and waits. She can always hold a silence longer than he can.

“Oh, we finally have a date for the Museum reopening,” he says, for something to say. “August twelfth. I get to bring a guest. Will you come?”

“That would be lovely,” she says. “If you’re sure you don’t want to take someone else.”

Fishing again. “I’m asking _you_ ,” he says, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice.

“Then I’d love to go,” she says calmly. “Thank you, darling. You must be happy it’s nearly done.”

“Yes,” he says, though it’s going to be a big push to get the extension finished in time. 

“I should leave you to your dinner, yes?” she says.

“OK,” he says. “Thanks for calling.”

“You know where I am if you want to talk,” she says, though they both know he’s not going to take her up on that. “Whatever it is. ’Night, my dear.”

“Goodnight,” he says.

He can’t be bothered to reheat the takeout; he eats some of it cold and boxes up the rest. He makes himself wash the dishes and put everything away properly; keeping to his personal routines is about the only thing he’s got left at the moment and he’s not about to let that slide. 

Not much chance he’ll sleep tonight, so he might as well prepare for tomorrow’s meeting with the Museum trustees. He pulls up the latest reports on the problems with the heating and ventilation system, and settles in for a long night.

 

If he knew of a mutant with the power to wipe memories, Erik would be there like a shot. As it is, he buries himself in work, watches a fuckton of online porn and even lets Moira set him up on a string of politely disastrous dates with her cute dull ex-colleagues from Case Western. Nothing works, or at least not for long. Nobody’s ever got under his skin the way Charles did.

The Museum job keeps him busy over the next few weeks, but that doesn’t help his temper, and when Alex brings that stupid glossy magazine into the office Erik practically bites his head off. What passes for journalism these days is an outrage, an insult to readers’ intelligence. Trite feature articles on the so-called upper set, their interior decorating and their clothes and their shallow empty lives…

BRIGHT YOUNG MUTANTS, the headline screams, over a picture Erik recognizes only too well. It’s the same one Tony had in his digital photo frame, Charles lying on his stomach in the grass with a book.

“Cute picture,” Moira says, picking up the magazine from his desk.

Erik glares. 

“Huh,” Moira says, reading the article. “Did you know he’d got a degree already?”

He didn’t know, but he does now. The details are imprinted on his brain: _wunderkind_ Charles Xavier, admitted to Bard College at sixteen, got his science degree in two years, graduating top of his class, Ivy League grad schools falling over themselves to offer him Ph.D. scholarships he doesn’t need because his fucking family’s so rich…

“Shit,” Erik says.

He takes a deep breath and holds onto the desk to steady himself, feeling the rage rolling around inside him like a thunderstorm. He’d like to slap that smug privileged face, grab the book away from Charles and fuck him till he can’t see straight, ruin his expensive pale clothes with grass stains and mud and come –

“Whoa,” Moira says. “Erik, are you OK?”

He shakes his head; he doesn’t trust his voice.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t know you still felt that way about him.”

No point trying to deny it when it’s written all over him.

“Why would he _do_ that?” Erik bursts out.

It’s the question that keeps going round and round in his head: Why would someone who has everything going for him pretend to be a rentboy?

Moira stares at the photograph as if she’s trying to read Charles’s mind. “Maybe he wanted to escape,” she says finally. “Be someone else for a while.”

“Escape,” Erik says. “Yeah, right.” It’s not like her to feel sorry for a poor little rich boy.

“Think about it,” she says. “If you had that much expectation weighing on you, people watching your every move, wouldn’t you want a break from it all?”

He can’t argue with that: a good Jewish boy knows all there is to know about the pressure of expectation. _My son the engineer_ , Edie says, making a joke of it, but she has his diploma on the sitting-room wall just the same.

“Did you ever hear from him again?” she asks.

“No,” he says. He wouldn’t expect to, not after the way they parted.

At least she doesn’t ask if he wishes Charles _had_ got in touch. He could lie, of course, but she wouldn’t believe him. When it comes to seeing straight through him she’s nearly as bad as Edie.

“Here,” she says, “I’ll put it in the recycling.”

He grabs her wrist. “Don’t.”

“OK,” she says, giving him a long look.

He shoves the magazine in the pocket of his laptop bag. 

“I’m going home,” he says, as the desk phone starts to ring. “Call me if the place catches fire.”

He’s surely earned some time off after the last few weeks, working flat out and sleeping on the couch in his office more times than he cares to count.

Moira rolls her eyes anyway. “I’m afraid he’s just left, Mr Stark,” she says. “Can I give him a message for you?”

Erik makes a grab for the phone.

“Oh, wait,” Moira says sweetly, “I think he’s just come back into the building.”

He gives her a look that says _You are dead_.

“Tony, hi, sorry about that.”

“Hey,” Tony says. “Don’t let me stop you if you were going out to get laid.”

“I ought to sue you for sexual harassment,” Erik grumbles. “What did you want?”

“JARVIS says there’s a glitch with the new model,” Tony says. “How soon can you come and fix it?”

Erik gestures to Moira to pull up his diary on the screen. “Monday looks clear, or Tuesday morning.”

“Put me down for both,” Tony says. “I’ll send the jet for you. Pepper’ll be in touch about a pickup time.”

“Thanks,” Erik says, but Tony’s already hung up.

And people say _Erik_ has no manners. New York on Monday; bang goes his quiet weekend. Erik sighs.

“Get some sleep,” Moira says. “You look like shit, and if you work all the hours from now till Monday you’re going to collapse.”

“OK,” he says, though they both know he doesn’t really mean it.

 

Home, he showers and gets into bed, the sheets still cool on his skin though they won’t stay that way for long on a hot sticky night like this. He rolls over onto his stomach and reaches down into his bag for the magazine.

The last time he jerked off to a magazine picture he must have been what, fourteen, fifteen? Younger than Charles is now; even younger than he looks in that photograph. Erik takes himself in hand and lets the fantasy unspool behind his eyes: Charles’s body hot and trembling underneath his, sweat making his shirt stick to him as Erik bites the back of his neck and rocks his hips, grinding himself against Charles’s buttocks and shoving his hand underneath him to grip Charles’s cock. Charles moaning and writhing, caught between Erik’s hand on his cock and Erik’s cock hard against his ass, Charles, fuck, Charles –

Erik comes hard, gasping and thrashing against the mattress, the taste of blood in his mouth where he’s bitten his lip. He stays awake just long enough to drop the magazine down by the side of the bed and wipe himself off with a handful of tissues. He has no dreams, or none that he remembers.

 

He calls Moira first thing, which she doesn’t sound any too pleased about, and asks her to book him into a mutant-friendly hotel somewhere central for Monday night. He’s not staying at Stark Tower again, not after the last time, and he’s not going back to the hotel where he spent that first night with Charles. 

The card from La Reine Blanche is still in his wallet; he kept meaning to throw it away and somehow never got round to it. Angel answers after a couple of rings.

“Hi,” he says. “It’s Erik Lehnsherr. I’m in New York on Monday night and I’d like to make a booking. Is Henry free?”


	8. To Sensual Pleasure

You can’t step in the same river twice, and Erik knows better than to try. Everything about this time is going to be different from the last. He lounges on the bed, half-undressed, and waits for Henry to arrive. 

This must be him: Erik hears the ping of the lift arriving, footsteps in the corridor, a knock at the door.

“It’s open,” he calls. “Come in.”

Henry’s more handsome in person than his profile picture, and Erik likes the way he looks him up and down.

“Drink?” Erik says, gesturing to the minibar.

“Not unless you are, thank you,” Henry says.

Erik shakes his head. “Maybe later.”

Henry unzips the small holdall he’s brought with him and takes out a length of rope, a pair of handcuffs, an assortment of metal toys (clamps, beads, cockrings) and a bunch of different condoms and lube sachets. He lays them neatly on the bed next to Erik and looks at him questioningly.

Erik grabs him by his shirt-collar and pulls him into a rough sloppy kiss, tugging him off balance so Henry loses his footing and sprawls on top of him. Erik laughs and pins him there, using the metal on his clothes to keep him in place, show him who’s boss, not that there’s any doubt about that.

“What’s your safeword?” he asks.

“Blue,” Henry says, which makes him think of Charles saying _Red_. “What would you like first?” 

“Strip and lie on your back,” Erik says, letting go of the metal. “I’m going to fuck your mouth and then I’m going to ride you.”

Henry strips without seeming either to hurry or to linger; Erik wonders if La Reine Blanche’s escorts are trained in the optimum speed for such things. Once he’s naked, he offers Erik the rope before lying flat on his back, arms outstretched. Erik ignores the rope; he can use metal to tie Henry up if he changes his mind, but it’s not what he wants right now.

He pulls down his pyjama pants and kneels over Henry, who strokes Erik’s cock till it’s fully hard and then rolls a condom on with his mouth, smoothing out the last half-inch with his thumb and finger.

Erik props him up on the pillows and rubs his cockhead against Henry’s parted lips and over his tongue. Henry mouths at the tip of his cock and then along the shaft before sucking him down as deep as he can. He’s good at this, and Erik lets himself go, lets his mind go blank as he fucks Henry’s mouth, wet heat and suction blotting out everything but the need to come. He braces himself against the headboard and thrusts repeatedly till he’s shuddering and gasping, bathed in sweat. Henry sucks him harder and cups and squeezes his balls, and that’s it, Erik’s coming, almost sobbing with relief.

“I’ll have that drink now,” Erik says, when he’s got his breath back.

Henry slides off the bed and goes to the minibar. “What can I get you?”

“Scotch,” Erik says. “And whatever you’d like yourself.”

“I don’t usually drink when I’m working,” Henry says, a bit solemnly. “But I do try to keep well hydrated.” He hands Erik his Scotch and pours himself a large glass of water. 

Erik drinks half his Scotch and then runs his hand down Henry’s chest and stomach to take hold of his cock. It’s not fully hard, but responds satisfactorily to Erik’s touch, growing heavier and thicker as he squeezes and strokes. Erik’s not quite ready for a second round himself yet, but this is as good a way as any to work up an appetite, and he pulls lazily at Henry’s cock, enjoying the sound of his altered breathing as he shifts his hips, pushing up into Erik’s fist.

“I – believe you said – something about riding me,” Henry says eventually.

Erik unwraps a condom and rolls it onto Henry’s cock, then hands him a sachet of lube. Henry lubes up his hands and pushes his forefinger slowly into Erik’s anus, probing and teasing. Erik grits his teeth against the shiver of pleasure the touch coaxes from him. He wants the burn and stretch of a cock inside him now, not this careful fingering. 

“That’s enough,” he says when Henry adds a second finger.

“Wait,” Henry says. He rips open another sachet and squeezes it over his fingers, then rubs it over Erik’s anus, the slippery sensation making Erik catch his breath. 

“Sorry,” Henry says, “I don’t want the condom to split.” He slicks his cock and then says “OK, all yours.”

Erik positions himself and sinks down on him till Henry’s all the way in. He fucks himself on Henry’s cock, fast and rough as Henry bucks under him and digs his nails into Erik’s back, snarling “Yes, fuck yes, do it –” Henry’s hand is on his cock jerking him off and Erik rides him, rides him hard till they’re both cursing and gasping, shuddering into orgasm.

“Thank you,” Erik says, when they’re lying side by side, heartbeats slowing back to normal. He wishes he hadn’t given up smoking, though having to disable the smoke alarm would have been a nuisance.

“Any time,” Henry says, and grins.

“Sure you don’t want a drink?” Erik asks.

“Tea would be nice, if they’ll do it,” Henry says. 

Erik calls up room service and orders a large pot of tea and a chicken sandwich, since he’s actually hungry now. Henry perks up at the mention of food, so he orders a sandwich for him as well.

It’s not what he had in mind at the start of the evening, eating chicken sandwiches and drinking tea, but it’s a pleasant enough way to pass the time. The sex and the sandwich make him sleepy enough between them that he catches a few hours, and wakes up feeling less wrecked than he was expecting.

Henry’s sitting in the armchair reading what looks like a physics textbook. Erik wonders what brought him into this line of work, but he’s not going to make the mistake of asking; he doesn’t want his life story. 

Henry’s wearing spectacles, which somehow isn’t surprising, but he takes them off and puts down the book when he realizes Erik’s awake.

“Morning,” he says. “Would you like anything?”

“Thanks, but no,” Erik says. “I have a meeting in an hour and I need to get ready.”

“OK,” Henry says. “I guess I’ll leave you to it, right?”

“Right,” Erik says. “Thanks again, Henry.”

“Call us any time you’re in New York,” Henry says. “Goodbye, Mr Lehnsherr.”

He picks up his holdall and goes, whistling a tune Erik half-recognizes.

Nice boy. He’d be happy to book him again. This is how it should have been the first time, if he’d met Henry the way he was supposed to, instead of Charles.

But the thought of a world in which he’d never met Charles is not as appealing as it ought to be. And now that Erik’s made the mistake of thinking about him, he knows he’s going to be ambushed by memories for the rest of the day. Fuck it.

He goes to shower, summoning up thoughts of Henry last night sucking his cock, Henry scratching his back as Erik rode him. It works just well enough to get him hard again. But it’s Charles he thinks of as he jerks himself off, Charles’s name on his lips as he comes.

“Fuck my life,” Erik mutters as he soaps himself clean again, letting the hot water cascade over him till he can’t stay in the shower any longer.


	9. In Despair

“How much longer are you going to go on like this?” Raven demands.

“I don’t know,” Charles says, caught off guard. “Go away, Raven, I’m thinking.”

She snorts. “Yeah, like you’ve been _thinking_ every day for the last six weeks.”

“Five and a half,” Charles says.

“God, listen to yourself!” She’s practically stamping with impatience. “He can’t be worth all this, Charles.”

Worth it or not, he can’t get Erik out of his mind. He’s tried to bury himself in work, spending as much time as possible gathering data for his research on the genetics of human mutation. He doesn’t let himself think too much about the start of the project, that day in June, coming out of the NYPL with his head still full of his first meeting with Professor Black, and then seeing Erik standing there on the library steps... 

Being a telepath makes it easier to identify potential test subjects, of course, even if he can’t influence them to take part because it would invalidate the experiment. As July turns into August and New York’s humidity wraps around him like a sodden wool blanket, though, it gets harder and harder to concentrate on his work, and he spends more and more time staring at that photograph of Erik.

He should have thrown it away, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It’s the only thing he has left of Erik now, apart from the Cavafy poems, and reading them makes him too sad. So much yearning and loss, the longing for what he can’t have again, _like music at night, distant, fading away_ …

 

He’d ripped up Erik’s business card in the taxi back to the hotel. What was the point in keeping it? Erik said he never wanted to see him again. 

All the flights were full, or he’d have come back to New York right away. As it was, he’d spent the night shaking and crying in the Cleveland hotel room, hit by wave after wave of misery. He tried to read himself to sleep, but every time he switched off the light Erik’s face and Erik’s words were there, inescapable, unbearable. After the third attempt he’d got dressed again and put his razor and his sleeping pills in a plastic bag that he took down to the lobby and shoved into the big trashcan by the reception desk. 

Somewhere in the city he knew Erik must be sleeping, or maybe lying awake too. He could reach out to him with his mind, but what good would that do? Erik’s anger was burnt into him already, so deep he’d never get it out again. He couldn’t imagine any encounter that didn’t end with Erik telling him to fuck off, and it hurt too much even to try.

He’d got the first morning flight out of Cleveland and locked himself in his room for the rest of the day, till Raven had yelled at him so much through the keyhole that he’d finally caved in and opened the door. She’d taken one look at him and hugged him tight while he cried, not even trying to fight it any more, till he felt wrung out and empty. She didn’t ask what had happened, but he told her anyway, in between sobs.

“What are you going to do?” she asked, when he’d finished.

“What can I do? You should have heard him, Raven, he hates me now.”

She hugged him again and said “You’ll think of something, I know you will. You’re so smart.”

If only that were true.

 

It’s hardly surprising that Raven’s fed up with him now; he’s fed up with himself, if it comes to that. 

“What’s Erik working on these days?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” he says, surprised at the question.

He doesn’t let himself Google Erik, even though he’s come close to typing his name into the search box every time he switches on his computer.

“Huh,” Raven says. She taps at the screen of her iPad.

“What are you – Raven, _don’t_ ,” Charles says, squirming with embarrassment.

“Got it!” she says triumphantly. “OK, you want to know or you don’t?”

It’s too much. “Fine,” he says, because what’s the point in going on fighting it. “Tell me.”

She hands over the tablet and he gazes at the article on the screen: CLEVELAND ART MUSEUM TO RE-OPEN, the headline says. Erik’s name jumps out at him from the third paragraph; apparently he’s solved the humidity problems that were holding up the project’s completion. Bully for him.

“So?” he says.

“So there’s a big party,” Raven says, as if explaining to a not very bright preschooler that 2+2=4. “Which he’ll be at, if he’s that important. So you get yourself in there and try again.”

“Raven, he said –”

“I know what he said,” she snaps. “That was six weeks ago. Maybe he’s calmed down now. Maybe he’s had time to miss you.”

If that isn’t the definition of wishful thinking, Charles doesn’t know what is.

“That’s not possible,” he says, though his throat feels so tight he can hardly speak.

“How do you know?”

Surely it’s obvious: Erik’s not the kind to change his mind that easily, or to forgive someone who’s lied to him the way Charles did, not once but twice.

“Even if he would listen, how am I supposed to get an invitation to this thing?” Charles says. He shouldn’t be letting himself _think_ about it, not after what happened last time they met.

“Will you just stop being such a fucking defeatist?” Raven’s golden eyes are blazing. “Use your contacts. Get Mother to pull strings. Ask Tony. Ask _Azazel_ to take you there; you don’t even need an invitation. The question isn’t how you get in; the question is, do you have the guts to try?”

Which is really unfair; she’s never had her heart broken the way Erik broke his. It’s not a matter of guts…

“Look,” she says, more gently, “you do want to see him again, don’t you?”

 _More than anything in the world_. “Yes,” he says.

“Then isn’t this worth a try?” she says. 

All his sensible arguments seem to have deserted him.

“OK,” he says. “Will you talk to Azazel?” He doesn’t think he can face explaining to his mother or Tony.

“You bet your sweet ass,” Raven says, beaming. “Now, the really big question: what are you going to wear?”


	10. If I cannot speak about my love

Charles looks around the crowded atrium, but he can’t see Erik anywhere. Can’t sense his mind, either, amongst the noise of so many others. This was a crazy idea: if Erik is here, he’s not going to thank Charles for gatecrashing his celebration.

He can sense some of the other mutants here: the scowling man over there who looks as if he’d like to be smoking a cigar, and who’s clearly in charge of security. There’s a sense of sheathed claws, something dangerous there. Better steer clear of him: Charles doesn’t want to get thrown out before he even has a chance to speak to Erik.

The director of the Museum’s a mutant, too: Dr Jean Grey, a red-haired woman dressed in black, smiling a polite fixed smile as she greets the guests. She’s a telepath, though that’s not all. Charles doesn’t probe further; instead, he makes his mind deliberately smooth, thinking of white walls, blank canvases, ranks of closed filing cabinets… He lets a faint mixture of boredom and nervousness escape him, a plausible enough combination for someone attending yet another gala opening. The real emotions, hope and fear and longing and desire, he pushes a long way down, out of sight.

He must look conspicuous by himself; it would help if he had someone to talk to, but he doesn’t know where to start, and he feels awkward, away from his familiar role as Sharon Marko’s son. The temptation to drink too much is very strong; he’s already on his second glass of wine.

The woman standing by the ornamental bamboo grove must be the same sort of age as Baby Jane and Gloria Swanson, though she looks nothing like them. Her hair is short, unfussy, iron-grey, and she wears a collarless dark red shirt loose over her black trousers, a black silk scarf and the kind of lace-up boots that make Charles think of a Victorian governess. She looks out of place here, but also as if she doesn’t give a damn. She gives him a quizzical glance when she catches him looking, and beckons him over.

“You look bored,” she says.

“I was,” Charles says. “Not any more.”

The woman smiles, the lines around her eyes crinkling. “Don’t you like art?” she asks. “What are you doing here then?”

“I’m with a client,” Charles says automatically, and wants to kick himself.

The woman gives him a sceptical look. “A client,” she says.

“Um,” Charles says. “No. I don’t know why I said that, it’s not true.”

“No,” the woman says drily.

She’s not a telepath, not even a mutant, but she _knows_ – 

“Don’t look so surprised,” she says. “It’s not magic. I have a son of my own, and I know that look. On him, and others.”

Charles grins weakly and puts his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “OK,” he says. “I’m – looking for someone I know, but he’s not here yet.”

“Not easy to tell, in this crowd,” the woman says, looking around at the party guests nibbling on canapés and sipping champagne.

The thought of food makes Charles’s stomach rumble. “Sorry,” he says. “I haven’t eaten much today.”

“The blintzes aren’t bad,” she says. “My cousin David made them.”

 _Not bad_ is an understatement. Charles wolfs down half a dozen in quick succession, and starts to feel a little less hollow.

“Drinking on an empty stomach,” the woman says, and rolls her eyes. “Have some of these before you fall down.”

“Thank you,” Charles says, in between mouthfuls of something fried and savoury that tastes so good it makes him whimper. “Did your cousin make these as well?”

“Yes,” she says, and smiles. “From my mother’s recipe. So, this man you’ve come to meet, is he expecting you?”

Charles chokes and splutters and she thumps him on the back.

“No,” he says, when he’s stopped coughing. “He doesn’t know I’m here.”

“Surprise for him, then,” she says. “Will he be pleased?”

She’s _uncanny_. Charles squirms and says “Probably not.”

He expects her to say something, to ask him why he’s here to see someone who doesn’t want to see him, or maybe tell him to go home and grow up. It’s no more than he deserves, after all. But she doesn’t say anything, just goes on looking at him, waiting to see what he’s going to say next.

“I screwed up,” he says. “He doesn’t want to see me. He said so, last time.”

Still she says nothing, and he blunders on, not knowing why he’s telling all this to a complete stranger. 

“He found out I wasn’t – who he thought I was,” he says miserably. “And then he was angry, he must have thought I’d been playing tricks on him, that – what we did, it wasn’t what it seemed to be –”

“He matters a lot to you, doesn’t he?” she says gently. “What do you want to say to him?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I – I just want to see him. I want to make it be all right again.”

He doesn’t know why he said _again_ , because when were they ever all right in the first place? What happened between them was based on a lie, and there’s nothing he can do about that.

“You sound as if you’re sorry,” she says.

“Yes,” he says. He doesn’t have to think about that one. Sorry for so many things, but most of all for what he feels he’s lost, the chance to have something real with Erik, however hard that might be.

“Did you tell him that?” she asks.

He shakes his head, because he can’t talk any more. The memory of Erik’s face, Erik’s voice, hurts so much he can hardly breathe.

“Maybe you should,” she says. “If he turns up.”

A bell rings loudly, twice, and conversation falls away. Dr Grey introduces the Mayor of the city, who formally declares the new atrium open, and who makes a long conventional speech congratulating the architect and the engineers and everyone who’s worked on the building.

“Didn’t mention the condensation,” somebody mutters; somebody else shushes them.

Dr Grey says that the architect’s not here, which Charles thinks must be unusual, but that Erik Lehnsherr is here on behalf of the engineering firm – “Erik, where are you?”

Charles can’t see him, but he can feel a characteristic flash of irritation from somewhere close by.

“He’s here,” a voice calls out. Charles looks round and sees Erik standing next to a skinny ginger-haired boy he quite plainly wants to strangle right now, judging by the way he’s projecting _You’re dead, Cassidy_. The boy looks familiar – he must have been one of the crowd in the beer cellar that time. Charles winces.

“ _There_ he is,” the woman with Charles says, and the wave of affection for Erik that comes from her is unmistakable, even before she adds “That’s my son.” 

“You must be very proud,” Charles says automatically. He’s amazed he can speak at all; he feels as if he’s just been punched in the stomach. 

“My father used to say I would shout it from the tops of the houses,” she says with a grin. “Though he was just as bad. And Erik’s a lot to be proud of.”

“Yes,” Charles says, half-dazed, watching Erik make his way to the centre and feeling the crackle of his irritation at every step.

Erik turns to address the crowd, and Charles feels the full force of his shock, then anger, at seeing Charles standing next to his mother. He makes the shortest possible speech of thanks to his team for their work, and stares at the floor while Dr Grey makes yet _another_ speech, inviting everyone to explore the new exhibition galleries on the ground floor. 

And then the ceremony’s finally over, and Erik is striding towards them with a face like thunder.

“Erik,” his mother says, and embraces him.

Charles shields himself as best he can against the fierce mixture of affection and fury blazing out of Erik’s mind. He tries to look as small and inconspicuous as possible, not that that’s going to do any good.

Erik pulls away from his mother’s embrace and scowls at Charles. “Mother, what’s _he_ doing here?”

His mother looks at him and then at Charles.

“Oh,” she says to Charles. “Is this him?”

“Yes,” Charles says, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him.

“Ah,” she says.

“What’s going on?” Erik demands.

“I think this young man has something he wants to say to you,” she says, and her voice is as calm as before, as if Erik’s anger just bounces off her.

“I – yes,” Charles says. “But –”

“Anything you have to say to me you can say in front of my mother,” Erik says, which Charles privately thinks is a mean trick.

“Yes, he can, if he likes,” she says, and then to Charles, “We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Edie Lehnsherr.”

“Charles Xavier,” he says. “Erik, I’m so sorry –”

“What the fuck did you think you were playing at?” Erik yells.

Several people look round to see what’s going on.

 _Nothing to see here_ , Charles projects, _go back to looking at the art_.

“Nice trick,” Edie says, watching the curiosity disappear from their faces, the conversations resume.

“He’s a telepath,” Erik spits. “Why do you think he’s talking to you?”

“I thought he might be enjoying my company,” Edie says, unruffled, and Erik flinches and mutters “Sorry.”

“Anyway,” Edie says, “he didn’t talk to me, I talked to him. I thought he looked a bit lost.”

“He made you feel sorry for him,” Erik says, clenching his fists at his side.

“He did,” Edie says, “but not like that, I think.”

“I didn’t know who she was,” Charles says. “Please, Erik, you have to believe me –”

“No, I don’t,” Erik says.

“ – no, you don’t, of course you don’t, but it’s true,” Charles says desperately. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Erik says, cold as ice.

Charles feels as if he’s shrivelling up inside, seeing himself as Erik sees him, and there’s no escape, he’s trapped in the unhappiness and the shame of it.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I don’t know what else to say – I’m just – I’m so sorry.”

“What are you sorry _for_?” Edie asks, and Charles can feel Erik biting back a _You keep out of this._

He takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry I lied to you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, the first time. I was – playing, but I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

“You couldn’t hurt me,” Erik says, which is such a transparent lie that there’s nothing to say.

“I wanted to find out what it was like,” Charles says. “To be – that sort of person. And then, when I saw you again, I was going to tell you, but that man got in the way and we – um, got distracted, and then Tony came back and I panicked –”

There’s a long silence.

“You could have put all that in a letter,” Erik says. “After all, you have my address now.”

“Why didn’t you do that, Charles?” Edie asks gently.

“I wanted to see him again,” he says, and that’s it, that’s the one thing left to make his humiliation complete. Tears well up and spill down his cheeks, and he doesn’t even try to stop them.

“What are you crying about?” Erik says roughly. It feels more like a rebuke than a question.

Charles dashes the back of his hand across his eyes and tries to pull himself together. “I’m crying because I really like you, and I screwed up, and there’s no way to put it right.”

Erik doesn’t say anything, but the waves of anger and confused emotion coming off him are so strong it leaves Charles almost breathless.

“Erik, a word, please,” Edie says. “Charles, excuse us, would you?”

“Of course,” Charles says numbly, and watches them disappear into the lobby.

He could just bolt, cut his losses and disappear. It’s not as if Erik’s going to come looking for him, to finish a conversation he never wanted to have in the first place. But maybe the only thing left he _can_ do right is to stay put and wait for what’s coming to him. He doesn’t try to eavesdrop on Erik and Edie’s conversation – he’s not sure he wants to hear what Erik’s saying about him.

After what seems an eternity but is probably just a few minutes Erik reappears, alone.

“My mother, for reasons I can’t understand, thinks I should give you a chance to say what else you want to say in private,” he says stiffly. “I’ve said I will, but after that it’s over between us, do you understand?”

Charles nods. He doesn’t know how he’s going to find the words to say what he wants to say, but Edie’s giving him a chance and he has to take it.

“Over here,” Erik says, gesturing to the space behind the stairs where they won’t be observed. “You have five minutes, and this had better be good.”

Charles follows him, though he’s feeling so shaky he can hardly stand up.

“Well?” Erik demands, folding his arms and glowering.

“I know I lied to you about who I was,” Charles says. “But what I did with you was the truest thing I’ve done in my life.”

Erik doesn’t say anything, but Charles feels the suspicion and disbelief radiating from him. Why _should_ Erik believe what he says, after the lies Charles told him? It’s hopeless.

Charles throws his arms around Erik’s neck and kisses him frantically, pressing his body as close to Erik’s as he can. His mind is awash with _the last time it can’t be the last time I can’t bear it if we never do this again I’ll die if I can’t have him again_ , and he knows it must be spilling out of him into Erik’s mind, but he can’t help it, all his boundaries shot to hell by the need and anguish of the kiss.

There’s an answering surge of emotion from Erik, a confused mixture of _fuck you you little shit want you so bad like this fuck I’d forgotten how he feels I can’t not here want to fuck him up against the wall_ –

Charles moans into Erik’s mouth, and Erik makes a frustrated noise and puts his arms around him, pulls him closer and kisses him hard, running his hands down Charles’s back to grab his arse. Charles bucks against him and pushes his hands into Erik’s hair, trying to get impossibly closer, deeper into the kiss.

 _I want to climb you like a tree_ , Charles thinks, and feels Erik’s startled laughter against his mouth.

Erik pulls away, saying “You’re impossible,” and Charles _whines_ , which isn’t what he meant to do at all. Erik smacks him hard, once, on the backside and says “Wait here.”

“OK,” Charles says. He’s not sure his legs would carry him if he tried to move.

“Don’t touch anything and don’t talk to anyone,” Erik says. 

“OK,” Charles says again. His arse is tingling from the slap, and he has an erection from that and the kissing. He feels as if he might fall down or fall asleep standing up, because the last half-hour has left him exhausted and drained. He’s not going anywhere until Erik _takes_ him, and the thought of that makes his cock throb painfully against his zipper. 

Erik looks him up and down and says “Good.” He grabs Charles and gives him another quick hard knee-weakening kiss, then turns on his heel and marches back into the atrium.


	11. The Bandaged Shoulder

Erik can’t think properly right now; his blood is still pounding and his head is full of all the things he wants to do to Charles and all the reasons why getting involved with him again would be a terrible idea. Charles’s words echo in his head, _what I did with you was the truest thing I’ve done in my life_ , and Erik wants to believe that, so much that it shakes him. 

How can he know that Charles isn’t _making_ Erik want to believe him? You can’t trust a telepath not to mess with your mind. But Edie obviously thought Charles was sincere, and her bullshit detector’s usually pretty infallible… 

Where the hell is Edie, anyway? Erik looks around the atrium but he can’t see her anywhere. He’d like to give her a piece of his mind, interfering like that. He knows he won’t really do it, though; he never does, when it comes to the crunch.

Suppressing a groan, he embarks on a round of fixed smiles and automatic goodbyes, working his way through the duty list of colleagues and museum staff. He’s just reached Jean Grey when he gets a wordless flare of panic in his head that he knows must be Charles. 

Fucking hell, what now? Can’t he leave the boy on his own for five minutes without Charles getting into more trouble? Maybe Logan’s finally caught up with him – Erik still doesn’t know how Charles managed to gatecrash the party…

 _What is it, Charles?_ he projects, as loud as he can.

 _He’s here_. Charles’s voice in his head sounds young and scared. _He’s found me_.

Erik doesn’t stop to ask who _he_ is.

“Sorry, got to go,” he says to Jean, and pushes urgently through the crowds, as fast as he can without actually knocking people over.

He doesn’t recognize the man with his hand around Charles’s throat, but he summons all his powers to send him flying, propelled against the wall by the metal in his clothes. The man seems to bounce off the wall, completely unscathed, and the next moment Erik is thrown backwards by what feels like a surge of magnetic force, so powerful it knocks the breath out of him.

“Get out of here!” the man yells at him. “This is between me and that cocksucking slut.”

“Don’t you dare touch him!” Erik says, scrambling to get to his feet.

The man laughs, and Erik’s knocked backwards again, hitting his head against the wall.

“Leave him alone!” Charles shouts, and hurls himself at the stranger.

There’s a sudden flash of metal in the man’s hand. Erik reaches out with his powers, but it’s too late. Charles cries out in pain and shock and collapses in a heap, leaving a smear of blood against the white wall as he crumples to the ground. 

The knife that comes flying into Erik’s hand has blood on it. Charles’s blood. Everything in him goes red at the sight of it. 

Erik sends the knife whizzing back against the man’s throat, but he can’t make it cut – the force-field is too strong. Charles is on the ground, bleeding, and the man stands there laughing – and then he suddenly freezes, held in place by a force Erik can’t see.

“Security, I need you here _now_ ,” barks a voice Erik barely recognizes as Jean Grey’s. “Somebody call 911!”

Erik drops to the floor and takes Charles in his arms as Logan and the museum guards rush in. “Charles,” he says. “Charles, are you all right?”

Stupid question. Charles gives him a watery smile. 

“Sorry,” he says, and goes limp and heavy in Erik’s arms.

“No!” Erik says. “No, no, _no_!”

He can’t lose Charles, not like this, not now… He presses his fingers to Charles’s shoulder, trying to stop the bleeding. All those First Aid courses and he can’t remember a fucking thing.

“Let me through!” It’s his mother’s voice, and then she’s down on her knees beside him, wadding up her handkerchief into a pad she presses against Charles’s shoulder and wrapping her scarf around it to hold it in place.

Charles’s eyelashes flutter and he sighs. “Edie,” he says. Erik’s never been so glad to hear his mother’s name.

The sound of sirens grows louder, and then stops. Cops and paramedics pour into the building and the corridor is too full of people, crowding around them. Erik clutches Charles tighter in his arms.

“Sir,” a woman’s voice says. “Sir, we need you to let go of him. We have to get him into the ambulance. You can come with us.”

Erik doesn’t want to let go, but he knows he has to. Edie puts her arm around him and climbs into the ambulance with him as the siren starts up again.

It’s not until they’re at the hospital that Erik realizes he’s bleeding too. He must have cut his hand on the man’s knife with that clumsy left-handed catch.

Charles is breathing more easily now and his colour is better, though he goes pale again when his shoulder is dressed. The police agree to wait till the morning to take his witness statement, and Erik’s too. Jean and Logan’s evidence was enough for them to take Charles’s attacker into custody. Erik hopes wherever they’re holding him is maximum security, given his powers, though he suspects they’ll also have drugged him with a suppressant.

Erik’s bracing himself to spend the night in hospital, but Charles insists that he’ll be fine, he doesn’t want to stay here, he wants to go home with Erik, and even the combined forces of Erik and Edie can’t persuade him to stay.

“I think you met your match, darling,” Edie says, and rolls her eyes. “Call me in the morning, OK?”

“OK,” Erik says, and hugs her tight. “Thank you for – thank you.” He can’t say any more; his heart’s too full.

“Take care of each other,” she says. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” he says. He can’t remember the last time he told her that. He should do it more often.

“See you soon, Charles,” she says.

“Yes, please,” Charles says, and blows her a kiss.

 

“I hope you like chicken soup,” Erik says with a grin as he opens the door to his apartment. “I get the feeling we’re going to be eating a lot of it.”

Edie doesn’t cook herself, but David runs the best Jewish catering business in town, and Erik’s willing to bet she’s already texting him to order a care package for the two of them.

Charles laughs. “I’m sure David’s chicken soup will be wonderful,” he says. “Can we go to bed now?”

Erik would like nothing better, but he can’t help asking “Who was he, Charles?”

Charles flinches – _do we have to do this now?_ , Erik hears him thinking, but he sits down on one of Erik’s kitchen chairs. Erik pours them each a glass of water and sits down too, not touching Charles.

“His name’s Sebastian Shaw,” Charles says. “I met him in the hotel bar.”

Erik’s gut twists with something that feels way too much like jealousy. “Where we met?”

“Yes,” Charles says uncomfortably. “I went back there. I was – I thought maybe I’d pick someone else up, because you’d gone back to Cleveland and I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

Erik knows he has no right to mind; what claim did he have on Charles then? But he does mind, just the same. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Charles says. “I – he took me up to his suite, but I didn’t go in, I couldn’t –”

“Did he give you money?” Erik asks.

“No,” Charles says. “We didn’t get that far. He ordered a bottle of champagne, and he said he would pay me, but I ran away. I – I saw what he was thinking, you see.”

He sends Erik an image that makes his stomach lurch: a case of sharp metal implements, laid out like a torturer’s apparatus.

“Fuck,” Erik says. “Charles, you could have been –”

He’s not going to say it. Not even going to _think_ it.

“I know,” Charles says, very pale again. “So I knocked him out and ran away.”

Erik remembers a moment from his childhood, the year after his father died, when Edie went back to college and his grandmother looked after him. He’d run across a busy road to hug her, and she’d smacked him hard across the back of the legs for scaring the life out of her. Right now, he knows exactly how she felt.

“What big hands you have, grandmamma,” Charles says, with a weak grin that makes Erik want to squash the breath out of him.

“I ought to put you across my knee and spank you,” Erik says, and he’s only half-joking.

Charles looks as if he rather likes the idea, but he says “Sorry,” sounding genuinely penitent. He puts his uninjured arm around Erik’s neck and leans in, his lips parted for a kiss.

This is crazy; they’re both injured and they ought to be resting up so they’re in good shape for the police interviews tomorrow. Erik’s torn between the fear of hurting Charles and a desire so fierce it takes his breath away, heats his blood till he can’t hold back any longer. 

He pulls Charles closer and presses the tip of his tongue between his lips. Charles moans and tightens his clasp around Erik’s neck, and Erik feels a wave of pleasure that’s Charles’s, not just his own. Charles is trying to climb into his lap, and Erik tenses; he pulls back from the kiss and says “Wait – I don’t want to jar your shoulder. Let’s go and lie down.”

In the bedroom he undresses Charles carefully and then strips his own clothes off. They lie down together and he takes Charles in his arms. Erik kisses his eyes and his cheeks and his neck and his hair and that spot behind the ear that makes Charles whimper with pleasure.

“Touch me,” Charles says. “Please, Erik.”

Erik strokes his chest and his stomach and his thighs, not teasing this time but finding what Charles needs, cupping his balls and squeezing him gently, then closing his hand around Charles’s cock and giving a long twisting stroke that makes Charles cry out.

“You OK?” Erik says breathlessly.

“Yes,” Charles says, “god, yes.”

“More?” Erik says, because he can’t help it, he still wants to hear Charles say it.

“ _Yes_ , more,” Charles says. “Please, like that, _more_.”

Erik loves this so much, the way Charles quivers and tenses as Erik works him, strokes him, pulling and sliding, curving his palm over Charles’s cockhead, varying the pace and hardness till Charles is shuddering and gasping and coming helplessly over Erik’s hand and his own stomach and chest. He’s beautiful like this, so utterly abandoned, lost and drowned in ecstasy. Erik wants to kiss him all over, _bite_ him, set his mark on him so that everyone knows the boy is _his_ …

Charles moans softly and pushes his hand between Erik’s thighs to fondle his cock. Both of them gasp as Charles grips tighter and starts to jerk Erik off – Erik’s so dizzy with wanting that he doesn’t realize at first that the movement is hurting Charles’s shoulder.

“Stop,” he says, though he’s so hard it hurts.

“I want to do it,” Charles protests.

“ _No_ ,” Erik says, as firmly as he can with Charles’s hand still tugging at his cock.

Charles pouts but stops moving his hand, which makes Erik think his shoulder must really be hurting. Erik rubs his thumb over his knuckles and Charles gives a little whimper that might be pleasure but Erik thinks is probably pain.

“Let go, Charles,” he says, raising his hand to cup Charles’s face. “Please.”

Charles lets go and lies back, breathing hard. “Come on me,” he says.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Erik says, trying not to go cross-eyed at the thought of it. He takes himself in hand and starts to jerk himself off, quick and rough, knowing it’s not going to take long. Not with Charles looking at him like that, as if the thing he wants most in all the world is for Erik to come all over him, over his stomach and chest and his face, _fuck_ , the way Charles is licking his lips makes Erik so hot and dizzy he can hardly breathe –

“ _Yes_ ,” Charles says urgently. “All over me, come on, Erik, want you to mark me, give it to me –”

“Fuck,” Erik gasps, so close, he can’t hold out any longer. “Shut your eyes, Charles, I’m going to –”

Charles moans and shuts his eyes as Erik starts to come, his cock pulsing over and over again in his fist, as if he’s being wrung out, till there’s nothing left of him, he can’t any more, can’t anything… He just about manages not to collapse on Charles, though it’s a near thing.

When the world comes back into focus again, there’s Charles looking extremely pleased with himself and wiping a streak of come off his chin. He sucks his finger and gives Erik such a saucy look that Erik can’t help laughing.

“Good thing you shut your eyes,” Erik says. “I got your left eyebrow.”

Charles gives a little snort of amusement and wipes his face again. “Missed my mouth, though,” he says. “Better luck next time.”

The thought of Charles’s red lips streaked with his come makes Erik’s cock twitch, and he groans.

“I want to do _everything_ with you,” Charles says, wriggling luxuriously. “Ow,” he adds.

“Lie _still_ ,” Erik says, and feels Charles’s thrill at the accidental echo of their first time. “You’re impossible.”

It sounds altogether too much like _I love you_ , but Erik doesn’t care.

Charles yawns suddenly, a huge unselfconscious yawn. “Sorry,” he says. “I think it’s catching up with me.”

“I’m not surprised,” Erik says. “Stay there, I’ll get a washcloth.”

The washcloth comes away stained red, and Erik sees that Charles’s shoulder has started bleeding again. Muttering curses under his breath, he gets the first-aid kit from the bathroom and carefully re-dresses Charles’s wound. There’s a perverse pleasure in knowing Charles is bleeding because he wanted Erik so much, and Erik’s aware that he’s lingering over the task, Charles watching him wide-eyed. 

He gets a fresh cloth to clean them both up, and Charles yelps and wriggles as Erik wipes the come off his stomach and chest. Ticklish, Erik thinks, filing that away for a time when Charles isn’t recovering from a fucking _stab wound_. He likes the idea of Charles laughing and squirming under his touch, likes the thought of being able to play. There hasn’t been enough of that, for either of them. He plants a kiss on Charles’s stomach and nuzzles him there till Charles gives a squawk of protest and pulls his hair.

“OK, OK,” Erik says. He drops the washcloth on the nightstand; the bathroom feels a long way away, and he’s getting drowsy now himself. They lie side by side, careful of Erik’s bandaged hand and Charles’s bandaged shoulder, and Charles kisses him on the ear and breathes deeply, as if he’s trying to breathe Erik in. It’s as sweet a feeling as Erik can remember, lying here with Charles in his arms, warm and alive and real, their breathing slowing to the same rhythm as they tumble into sleep together.


	12. Their Beginning

It’s a lovely thing, waking up in Erik’s bed, even if Charles’s shoulder _is_ hurting. Erik’s awake already, and looking at him with such unguarded affection that Charles feels almost shy. 

“Morning,” he says, and buries his face in Erik’s shoulder, nuzzling him.

“Morning, trouble,” Erik says, and kisses the top of his head.

“Huh,” Charles says, but he’s too happy to argue, lapped round with Erik’s tenderness and desire. His mind is full of light and warmth and his body is humming with arousal, feeling Erik’s hard-on pressing against his thigh.

It takes them a while to find a position that’s comfortable for Charles’s shoulder, but they do, Erik lying on top of him and pressing their cocks together, _so good, yes, like that, just like that_ , rocking till the sweetness of that friction is too much to bear and they’re coming, Erik’s orgasm and his own all mixed up together in his mind.

He’d like to wake up like this every morning, though it feels too early to say that to Erik. They’re still so new together, feeling their way in this relationship. But it _is_ one; he’s sure of that now, and the thought of that makes him want to whistle and sing.

Erik fusses over him a bit as he showers and dresses, insisting on bandaging his shoulder again, and Charles doesn’t protest, though he wouldn’t like it from anyone else. He still feels half-asleep, which he supposes is partly the after-effects of the shock.

He sits at the kitchen table while Erik fixes breakfast for them both, a proper breakfast with pancakes and blueberries and very serious coffee. Erik cooks with a kind of fierce efficiency that’s very pleasant to watch, and everything smells wonderful this morning. Charles finds he’s ravenous, which probably isn’t surprising; even the prospect of going to the police station can’t take his appetite away, though he feels uneasy about it. 

If he’d known the police were going to interview them separately, he’d have been even more nervous.

Erik’s a long time giving his statement, and he looks grim when he comes out of the interview room. Charles doesn’t have time to ask him why before his own interview starts, but it’s clear from the officers’ questions that Shaw is denying the attack and accusing _Erik_. It’s a struggle for Charles to keep his temper, but he manages, and gives a factual account of the assault and Erik’s part in trying to protect him. 

“Did you know Mr Shaw was going to be at the party?” the lieutenant asks.

“God, no,” Charles says, with a shudder, remembering the terror of that moment, the smile like a case of knives, and Shaw saying _Did you really think I would let you get away?_

“He wasn’t on the guest list,” the other officer says. “One of the wait staff said she’d seen him appear out of nowhere with a man dressed as a red devil, complete with a tail. She assumed it was all part of the floor show.”

“Azazel,” Charles says, feeling his stomach lurch. 

“Az – what?”

“Azazel,” Charles says. “I don’t know his second name. He’s Raven’s – my sister’s – boyfriend. She got him to teleport me into the party.” 

“What’s his connection with Mr Shaw?” the lieutenant asks.

“I don’t know,” he says, and then he remembers Raven saying that Azazel’s boss was some big shot who liked to travel a lot. Oh no. But that’s it, isn’t it? No need to wonder any more how Shaw knew where to find him. This is going to be tough on Raven, but he can’t let himself think about that now. “I think… maybe he works for him.”

“And do you know of any reason why Mr Shaw would want to attack you?” 

Shit. He knew this was coming, but he’s not sure how to handle it. 

“We had met once before,” he says carefully, “but I didn’t know him at all well.”

The phone rings in the interview room, and the lieutenant picks up the handset.

“What?” he says. “That’s not – well, OK, I guess we can allow it, if they’re willing.”

He puts the phone down and turns back to Charles.

“Shaw’s lawyer says he wants to see you,” he says.

 

“It’s a trap,” Erik says again.

“Possibly,” Charles says. “But I guess it’s better to find out now what he’s up to, rather than having it sprung on us later.”

Shaw’s in a maximum security isolation cell, and Charles gets a flash of what happened last night: a fire-breathing mutant prisoner attacking Shaw, who somehow absorbed the fire and blasted it back at him and the guards. It had taken five of them to subdue him, and now he’s on suppressants as well as in isolation. Normally Charles hates the idea of suppressing any mutant’s power like that, but right now he’s grateful for whatever is holding Shaw in check.

“Oh, you brought your new keeper!” Shaw says.

“He’s not my keeper,” Charles says, though Shaw must know that already.

“I was talking to Mr Lehnsherr,” Shaw says, with a smile that makes Charles feel nauseous. “How does it feel to be a rich boy’s plaything?”

Charles feels Erik tense up at that. _Don’t let him see he’s scored a hit,_ he tells Erik. _You and I know what we are together, and it’s nobody else’s business._ For good measure, he sends Erik an image of this morning’s lovemaking, the two of them groaning in each other’s arms.

“Strange as it may seem, I didn’t ask you here to watch you having telepathic sex,” Shaw says.

Charles could never in a million years feel dirty about anything he did with Erik, but Shaw pushes him closer to that feeling than he would have thought possible.

“What did you want, Mr Shaw?” he asks, with as much icy politeness as he can summon.

“To do you a favour,” Shaw says smoothly.

“The hell you do,” Erik says.

“What kind of favour?” Charles asks.

“You don’t want this to come to trial,” Shaw says.

“Don’t I?” 

“Ever heard of aggravated assault?” Shaw says, looking very pleased with himself. “Ohio’s laws are so quaint. Apparently an assault committed in an uncontrollable fit of rage is a much less serious offence. And of course the court would have to consider the reasons for my uncontrollable fit of rage. Which means everyone gets to hear about Charles Xavier being a twisted little fuck who plays at being a whore and tricks unsuspecting businessmen out of their hard-earned cash.”

“You think anyone’s going to believe that?” Erik snaps.

“Why not?” Shaw says. “It’s true, after all. I gather that Emma Frost would be only too willing to testify that your pretty boy there used his telepathy to pose as one of her staff. He’s lucky she’s not bringing a fraud charge.”

 _Shit._ How did Emma Frost even know who Charles was? Use your brain, Xavier, the answer’s obvious: Henry must have seen that fucking magazine article and recognized him. Shaw must have done the same, mustn’t he? Charles is sure he never told him his surname.

“It’s hardly fraud if no money changes hands,” Erik says. His voice is calm, but Charles feels the betraying hum of metal in the room. 

From the sickening smile on Shaw’s face, he must be feeling it too. “Do your clients know you like underage hookers?” he jeers.

“Charles is eighteen,” Erik says, and his voice is tight. “Two years over the age of consent here. Like you said, Ohio laws are quaint.”

“Oh, Charles is eighteen,” Shaw says. “But who’s to say how many others there have been, or how young they were?”

“I think you’re confusing Erik’s record with your own,” Charles says coldly. “How many of your other victims should the police be looking for?” He’s sure there must have been others, but god knows if the truth about that will ever come to light. He’s not even sure if the police will take him seriously, though he’ll have to tell them what he suspects.

“In any case,” Shaw says to Erik, apparently unruffled, “the truth by itself is enough to make you a laughing-stock or worse. You can just imagine what they’ll say, can’t you? Erik Lehnsherr? Oh yes, he’s the one who met his boyfriend when the kid was pretending to be a rentboy.”

Charles feels the surge of anger and humiliation from Erik at that, and he doesn’t know what to do. This thing between them is so new, so fragile and untested, and he’s scared of what Shaw’s words will do to them. He can’t bear it if he loses Erik, not now he’s found him again –

He must have been projecting some of that, because Erik takes his hand under the table and squeezes it tightly. Charles squeezes back, grateful for the reassurance.

“What do you think’s going to happen when the story breaks?” Shaw says to Charles. “The press will love tearing you to pieces.”

The hatred and glee coming off him are so strong that Charles almost retches. He takes a deep breath – calm, Xavier, stay calm – and says “Your lawyer thinks you’ll get at least a year in jail for this. I’d say that’s worth it.”

“Think about it,” Shaw says, and he’s not smiling any more. “Your mother’s going to hate you even more than she already does. They won’t let your sister associate with you.”

Charles thinks of Raven hugging him tight and telling him to try again with Erik, distracting his mother on his behalf, defying her and Kurt about Azazel. He laughs. “You don’t know my sister if you think that’s going to work.”

“Withdraw your testimony,” Shaw says. “Or this whole story is going to make the news. Nobody’s going to want to know you when the truth comes out. That kind of scandal never goes away.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Charles says. “I believe this interview is over. See you in court, Mr Shaw.”

He won’t, of course; telepaths have to testify by video link so they can’t tamper with the jury. But it makes a good exit line.

 

“Ugh,” Charles says, when they’re out in the parking lot. “I need a shower.” He buries his face in Erik’s neck, and Erik hugs him gently and kisses his hair.

“Do you think it’s true about Emma Frost?” Charles asks.

Erik’s arms tighten protectively around him. “Maybe,” he says. “She was mad at you when she found out.”

“I’m going to have to apologise to her, aren’t I?” Charles says with a groan. “And to Henry.”

“Henry’s a nice guy,” Erik says. “I think he’ll forgive you more easily than she will.”

“You met him?” Charles says, and then it hits him. “ _Oh_. You had sex with him.”

“I did,” Erik says. “Does that bother you?”

Charles knows he shouldn’t mind, but his stomach feels all knotted up. “How was it?”

“I can’t believe you just asked me that!” Erik swats him on the backside. “He was nice and the sex was fine. I thought it’d get you out of my system. It didn’t.”

Some of the knotted feeling in Charles’s stomach goes away at that, though the way Erik’s looking down at him is making it hard to breathe.

“I wasn’t looking for this,” Erik says. “I don’t think you were either. But it’s happened.”

He hugs Charles tighter, and kisses him till Charles can hardly stand up straight.

“I want _you_ , OK?” Erik says, when they break apart for air. “Just you.”

“I want that too,” Charles says. “Just you.” He kisses Erik again, a kiss with his whole heart in it.

“Shit,” Erik says, letting go of him abruptly. “Did I hurt your shoulder?”

“It’s OK,” Charles says. “I’m OK.”

Something’s buzzing against his side, over and over again.

“Damn,” Erik says, taking out his phone. “It’s Moira.”

“Go ahead,” Charles says. “I’ll be right here.”

“Moira, hi,” Erik says. “Yeah, he’s fine. _We’re_ fine… _What_?... Are you sure?... OK, OK, I’ll be in – later. Bye.”

It’s good news – Charles can feel that much – but with an edge of uncertainty in it. “What’s happened?”

Erik looks at him as if he’s trying to read him. “We just got a big commission,” he says. “In Paris. The job’s going to take at least six months.”

 _Paris_. He’s never been to Paris, and the thought of going there with Erik –

“I would really like you to come with me,” Erik says carefully, “but I know you’re starting grad school any day now –”

“Grad school can wait,” Charles says. He doesn’t even have to think about it. He wants to be with Erik – and if Shaw’s right about the trial, putting an ocean between him and his mother seems like a really good idea. He wouldn’t even have to put his work completely on hold; he can gather data as easily in Paris as in New York.

“ _Paris_ ,” Erik says. He looks happier than Charles has ever seen him. “I like the thought of you and me in Paris.”

Charles gets a glimpse of it: an apartment that looks out into a little courtyard with acacia trees, morning sunlight flooding into the room, a plate of croissants with apricot jam, a huge old-fashioned bed with Charles naked in it…

“I like that too,” Charles says, sending Erik a few choice images of what they’ll be doing in that bed. “When can we go?”

“Soon,” Erik says roughly. He gives Charles another of those looks that make him go weak at the knees. “I promised Moira I’d be in later, but I have some things I need to take care of at home first.”

 _I’m going to stroke you till you’re begging me to let you come_ , his voice says in Charles’s head, _and after you’ve come I’m going to suck your cock till you get hard again and then fuck you till you can’t remember your own name._

“Oh,” Charles says, clinging to Erik so he doesn’t fall down. “Oh yes.”

“Get in,” Erik says, opening the car doors with his powers.

Charles tumbles into the passenger seat, every cell in his body singing with anticipation. He looks at Erik’s hands on the steering-wheel and shivers with pleasure at the thought of those hands all over him, touching and teasing and driving him out of his mind in Erik’s bed, in a hotel room, in Tony Stark’s guest suite, in their bed in Paris…

All this and Paris too? Charles can’t imagine anything better than his life right now. Whatever happens with the trial and Shaw, he can’t regret what he did, not when it’s brought him _this_.

 _I’m yours_ , he says to Erik in his head. _Take me home_

**Author's Note:**

> Heartfelt thanks to C_Gracewood and Kalypso for beta brilliance and unstinting support, and to second_skin and thimpressionist for cheering me on.
> 
> Additional thanks to Synekdokee, whose [tumblr post](http://synekdokee.tumblr.com/post/45439953941/fuckyeahcherik-my-underage-kept-boy-charles-and) started me thinking about why Charles might do what he does in this fic, and to everyone in chat who encouraged me to write it.
> 
> The Cavafy edition that Henry leaves behind and Charles picks up is the translation by [Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard](http://www.princeton.edu/hellenic/publications/pup-modern-greek-studies/Keeley-Sherrard-C.P.Cavafy-Collected-Poems-Lg.jpg); online texts of all poems quoted are [here](http://www.cavafy.com/poems/list.asp?cat=1). Individual chapter titles are from the following poems: Chapter 1, At the Cafe Door; Chapter 2, One Night; Chapter 3, The Twenty-Fifth Year of His Life; Chapter 4, Body, Remember; Chapter 5, Passing Through; Chapter 6, The City; Chapter 7, Things Ended; Chapter 8, To Sensual Pleasure; Chapter 9, In Despair; Chapter 10, December, 1903; Chapter 11, The Bandaged Shoulder; Chapter 12, Their Beginning.
> 
> I have changed the date on which the Cleveland Museum of Art reopened in 2012; it is apparently true that the opening was delayed by problems with humidity and condensation. Shaw's information about aggravated assault is also apparently true. Everything else is made up.
> 
> If you haven't already seen it, don't miss **[Raffi's gorgeous and inspiring art here](http://raffi.livejournal.com/279014.html).**


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